*  1 


• 


807.73 

Shb2r   Shillaber,  B.P. 


Rhymes  with  reason 


. 

6932  y 


and  without 


807. \ 3   Shillaber,  B.  P. 
Sho2r       Rhymes  with  reason 

/and  without 


\ 

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Shillaber.  —  B.  P.  Shillaber,  the  genial  "Mrs. 
Partington,"  was  visited  the  other  day  at  his  quiet 
home  in  Chelsea.  Although  he  has  arrived  at  the 
advanced  age  of  seventy-four  years,  his  intellect 
seems  to  be  as  clear  as  ever.  He  has  not  been  in 
Boston  for  seven  years,  having  long  had  rheumatic 
trouble,  which  has  made  locomotion  difficult,  al 
though  he  gets  about  the  house  with  a  cane,  and 
rides  now  and  then  iri  a  carriage.  He  has  four 
children  living.  One  daughter  remains  with  him, 
the  comfort  of  his  declining  years.  Mr.  Shillaber 
has  published  nine  books,  collections  from  his  own 
writings.  Two  of  these  were  verse,  three  for 
juveniles,  and  he  has  one  now  ready  for  publication. 
Enjoying  fair  health,  he  manages  to  get  along,  and 
"with  pen,  paper,  pipe,  and  pills,"  said  he,  "I  sit 
here  from  year's  end  to  year's  end,  patient  as  may 
be,  receive  my  friends,  and  wait  for  the  better  life." 
—  Boston  Budget. 


ngrarcd  from,  i  Dig'  by  H.VT  y- 


' 


WALT  [ 


RHYMES" 


WITH  REASON  AND  WITHOUT. 


BY 


B.    P.    SHILLABER, 


Do  I  not  represent  myself  to  the  life  ?    Enough ;  all  the  world  knows  me  in 
my  book,  and  my  book  in  me.  —  MONTAIGNE. 


BOSTON: 

ABEL  TOMPKINS  AND  B.  B.  MIJSSET  &  CO. 
1853. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 
B.    P.    SHILLABER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 

• 


Stereotyped   bjr 

HOBART    ft    BOBBINS, 

BOSTON. 


sms 

URB 


£  nl.  Cjjatlra  <0.  dtetm, 


THROUGH  WHOSE  INDULGENCE  THE  WRITER 
WAS  FIKST  INDUCED  TO  EMBARK 
OK  THE  TIDE  OF  RHYME, 


IS  RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED. 


PREFACE. 


THE  author  of  the  folio-wing  is  too  old  an  offender  to  expect  to 
be  shielded  from  criticism  by  any  pretence  of  verdancy,  and  he 
puts  in  no  claim  for  critical  clemency  on  that  account ;  but  lie 
would  ask  consideration  for  the  fact  that  all  he  has  written  was 
merely  intended,  originally,  to  amuse  the  writer  himself,  and 
such  newspaper  readers  as  might  venture  upon  its  perusal  in  the 
corner  of  their  favorite  journal.  He  disclaims  all  previous  inten 
tion  of  throwing  his  productions  into  their  present  form,  —  per 
haps  it  would  have  been  better  had  he  never  consented  to  do  so, 
—  but  the  importunity  of  many  friends  overcame  the  scruples 
existing  in  his  mind,  and  he  has  herein  perilled  his  own  peace  for 
their  gratification. 

Many  of  the  articles  have  received  a  goo*y  share  of  popular 
commendation,  for  some  reason  ;  and  the  writer  trusts  the  merit 
they  possess — if  any  —  may  prove  a  palliative  for  such  demer 
its  as  may  be  found  in  the  rest,  —  too  easily  d;s""  '    " 
greatly  fears.  ^g 

The  portrait  accompanying  is  a  frea1 75 

that  has  grown  up  recently  in  th •  .  .   77 


VI  PREFACE. 

newspaper  praise  he  has  received,  -which  has  served  to  bring  him 
out  of  the  shadow  of  his  own  hugeness,  into  the  broad  sunlight 
of  notoriety.  A  desire  has  been  frequently  expressed,  by  distant 
friends,  to  see  the  "liniments"  of  Mrs.  Partington,  and  he  is 
most  happy  to  gratify  their  wish. 

The  writer  trusts  that  in  no  instance  in  his  book  has  he  uttered 
a  word  or  sentiment  that  need  disturb  the  equanimity  of  the  most 
fastidious;  and  though  the  "Rhymes  without  Reason"  may 
predominate,  still,  as  the  amusement  of  the  people  was  their  aim, 
their  good-nature  may  atone  for  lack  of  literary  merit.  One 
word  he  can  say,  however,  for  his  entire  book,  —  as  the  man 
said  about  his  baby,  —  "It  is  not  a  very  handsome  baby,  but 
it's  mine."  The  different  phases  of  feeling  expressed  therein, 
whether  of  the  mirthful  or  the  sad.  —  and  there  is  much  of  sad 
ness  in  it,  —  are  correct  transcripts  of  the  writer's  own  feelings, 
moved  at  times  by  grief  as  deep  as  the  human  heart  can  know, 
and  by  joys  of  a  corresponding  strength. 

He  leaves  his  book  with  the  public,  fully  conscious  of  its  imper 
fections,  but  with  a  latent  hope  that  it  may  conduce  to  the  pleasure 
of  those  who  read  it ;  with  the  hope,  too,  that  the  friendly  feeling 
which  has  prompted  its  premature  praise  may  not  be  wholly 
disappointed  in  view  of  its  deficiencies. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE;  PRESS, 11 

THE  POOR  MAN'S  'WEALTH, 16 

YOUNG  GRIMES, 18 

BALLAD  OP  THE  PISCATAQUA, 21 

THE  EARTH  AND  THINGS, 24 

LITTLE  EMMA  GOING  TO  SLEEP, 26 

THE  POOR  FARM, 28 

POVERTY  IN  A  SHOWER, 30 

THE  SKELETON  SCHOONER, 33 

THE  SUMMER  RAIN 36 

UNFAILING  SIGNS, 38 

WHAT  WAS  IT  ALL  ABOUT  ?    .   .   . 40 

MYSTERIOUS  RAPPINGS, 43 

THE  CONSUMPTIVE, 47 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  JILTED  ONE, .49 

THE  OLD  PRINTER, 52 

THE  THREE  LOCKS, 55 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  'BUS 58 

THE  OMEN  MOON, * 59 

THE  LAUGHING  BAN, 61 

THE  JOUR.  PRINTER'S  MONUMENT 64 

THE  WIDOW  OF  NODDLE'S  ISLAND, 68 

THE  SPRING  ON  THE  SHORE, 71 

MRS.  PARTINGTON  AT  TEA, 73 

THE  JACKET  OF  BLUE, 75 

MRS.  PARTINGTON'S  FAREWELL, 77 


YTTT  CONTEXTS. 

PAG* 

•WITHERED  GRASS, 78 

MEMORIES, 80 

OUR  ELLEN, 82 

PHILANTHROP09   AT  FAULT, 84 

DOMESTIC    JEWELS, 86 

THE   LITTLE  RIVULET, 87 

A  VALENTINE, 90 

KEW   HAMPSHIRE, 92 

OPENING   OF  THE  LATE  MR.  JOHN  SMITH'S  WILL,     ......     94 

BENEVOLENCE, 99 

MIDNIGHT  MUSIC, • 101 

A  SPRITELY   REVENGE, •  103 

THE   OLD   GREEN   COTTON, 106 

OWED   TO   MONET 108 

A  VISION   OF  LIFE, .     . Ill 

AN  OLD  PARABLE  MODERNIZED, «....  114 

LINES  IN  AN  ALBUM, 115 

A  GLANCE  OUT  INTO  THE  COOL, 117 

THE  OLD  BACHELOR'S  BEQUEST 120 

THE  GARDEN  GRAVES, 122 

THE  'BIDING  CURSE, 125 

THE  OLD  IMAGE-MAKER, 128 

WELCOME  TO  JENNY  LLND, 130 

SPIRIT  LONGING 132 

A  SWEET  REVENGE, 135 

PARSON  STORER  IN  A  FIX 138 

THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA, 143 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD 146 

THE  TABLES  TURNED  :  A  DOGGEREL, 148 

THE  MISER, 153 

SILVER  VERSUS  TIN, 155 

SOLDIER,  COME  HOME !    ...• 15& 

THE  UNION 159 

A  PLEASURE-TRIP  TO  HAMPTON, 162 

TO  THE  OLD  INKSTAND, 169 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGB 

SATURDAY  NIGHT, « 171 

THE  LITTLE   GRAVE  REVISITED, 174 

A   SLEIGHING   SONG, 176 

THE  FEARFUL   OATH 178 

THE  FIRST  ROBIN   OF  SPRING, 182 

"DANIEL  WEBSTER  is  NO  MORE!" 183 

A  RETROSPECTIOX, 185 

RUBBISH  ABOUT  AN  OLD  HOUSE, 187 

RUM  REMINISCENCES, 189 

THE  MINER'S  RETURN, 191 

CITY  PHILOSOPHY, 194 

THE  ANTIQUATED  CHAPEAIT, 199 

OLD  TIMES, 201 

A  RHYME  ABOUT  A  BABY, 204 

THE  BAR-KEEPER'S  DREAM, 208 

THE  SEEDY  OLD  GENTLEMAN, 213 

THE  PRINTER'S  SORROWS  ENDED, .  215 

THE  WITCH  OF  LYNN,      218 

APPLES  :  AN  ANALOGY, 221 

THE  DEAD  SAILOR 222 

RHYME  ABOUT  A  BULLFROG, 224 

FRANKLIN, 226 

THE  DISAPPOINTED  FLOCK  ;  OR,  THE  SHEPHERD  IMPOUNDED,  .  228 

I  WOULDN'T — WOULD  YOU?     232 

THE  COAL-DEALER'S  DREAM, 233 

A  SONG 237 

A  TOUCHING  BALLAD, 240 

YARN  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER, 243 

MY  LITTLE  ANGEL  BOYS, 249 

LOVE'S  VICISSITUDES, 251 

ANGEL  VISITS, 254 

THE  MYSTERY  SOLVED, 257 

A  PICTURE  FROM  LIFE, 259 

THE  RULING  PASSION, 260 

THE  VETERAN, 261 


2  CONTENTS. 

PAM 

LAY  OF  THE  LAST  WHITE  HAT, 265 

THE  MAIDEN"  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN 267 

CHARITY  AT  HOME, 269 

A  STORY  OF  A  SERENADE, 272 

ORACULAR  PEARLS  FROM  THE  LIPS  OF  MRS.  PABTINOTOH,    .  .  276 

THE  LOST  ONE, 278 

OVER  THE  WAY  LYRICS, 280 

THE  COROMANDEL'S  LAMEST, 285 

A  PICTURE, 287 

A  WISH  OF  FRIENDSHIP, 288 

A  PROPHECY  FOR  FIFTY-TWO 290 

CORA  BELL. — A  BALLAD, 293 

WINTER  BLOSSOMS, 295 

TJNCONSIDERED  TRIFLES, 297 

THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  READERS, 298 

SONNETS,  ...  .801 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE   PRESS. 

How  some  men  glory  in  the  trophies  olden, 
Won  from  the  hiding  dust  of  grim  decay, 

Prizing  each  time-worn  trifle  more  than  golden, 
That  long  in  cobweb  gloom  hath  lain  away  !  — 

Searching  in  garrets  and  in  dark  haunts  dismal, 
Where  the  lone  spider  holds  exclusive  reign  ; 

Plunging  in  cellars,  'mid  their  depths  abysmal, 
Belies  of  eld  in  triumph  to  obtain ! 

Thus  went  a  seeker  on  a  day  exploring, 
Curiously  peeping  in  each  musty  paper ; 

Behind  old  wainscots,  and  'neath  ancient  flooring, 
Each  nook  illuming  with  a  sickly  taper. 

Suddenly,  standing  on  an  elevation, 

Peering  high  up  on  shelves  above  his  head, 

He  heard  a  voice  that  to  his  trepidation 

Said,  in  plain  English,  "  Just  get  off  my  bed ! " 

Closer  he  peered  into  the  nook  before  him, 
And  marvelled  much  such  utterance  to  hear ; 

Sounded  the  ceiling  all  around  and  o'er  him, 
With  curiosity  allied  with  fear  ! 


12  THE   VOICE   OP   THE   PKESS. 

• 

When,  through  the  struggle  of  his  yearning  vision, 
The  darkness  yielded  to  its  earnestness, 

Dimly  appeared  none  other  apparition 
Than  the  worn  relics -of  an  ancient  Press. 

Grimly  it  rested  in  its  corner  dusty, 
Where  in  forgetfulness  obscure  it  lay  ; 

Worm-eaten,  old,  and  rickety,  and  rusty, 
Memorial  sad  of  days  long  passed  away. 

Gazing  upon  it  with  a  wonder  glowing, 

Fancy  endowed  the  ancient  frame  with  tongue ; 

And,  as  he  gazed,  like  music  olden  flowing, 
This  song  it  to  the  listener  said  or  sung. 

THE   SONG   OF   THE   PRESS. 

Crazy  and  old,  crazy  and  old, 

I  'm  left  to  a  drear  decay ; 
My  destiny  's  done,  my  story  is  told  ; 
Yet,  though  oblivion's  clouds  enfold, 
By  one  reflection  I  'm  still  consoled, 

I  have  warn  myself  away  ; 
And  though  with  rubbish  I  'm  now  enrolled, 

I  have  lived  to  bless  my  day. 

Dark  times  were  they  when  to  birth  I  sprang, 

Ready  armed  for  the  fight ; 
When  trumpet-like  my  loud  voice  rang, 
Awaking  the  nations  with  its  clang, 


THE   VOICE   OF    THE   PRESS.  13 

Or  my  joyful  notes  of  triumph  sang, 

As  Error  took  its  flight,  — 
Wounded,  fled,  with  many  a  pang, 

In  Truth's  enkindled  light. 

For  the  people,  the  people,  I  've  ever  spoke, 

To  i^eir  call  I  've  ever  sprang ; 
Never  in  vain  did  they  aid  invoke ; 
My  voice  the  sleeping  Samsons  woke, 
And  urged  the  speedy  avenging  stroke ; 

In  thunder  tones  it  rang, 
When  Cromwell  rived  the  tyrant's  yoke, 

And  heavenly  Milton  sang. 

In  later  days  its  tones  were  heard 

On  our  own  beloved  shore, 
And  quick  in  the  minds  of  men  it  stirred, 
As  greedy  ears  drank  in  its  word, 
Prompting  deeds  which  no  fears  deterred, 

Or  gloomy  doubts  cast  o'er ; 
Waking  hopes  not  to  be  deferred, 

To  be  put  to  rest  no  more. 

Alas  !  and  thus  I  am  thrust  away 

To  an  ignominious  lot ; 
Mouldering,  mouldering  day  by  day, 
No  sunbeam  visits  my  bed  with  its  ray, 
No  laurel  wreaths  round  my  head  now  play, 

And,  chained  to  this  dismal  spot, 
The  friend  of  Franklin  and  Faust  now  may, 

E'en  like  them,  die  and  rot. 


14  THE  VOICE   OF   THE  PRESS. 

The  old  press  thus  its  dismal  ditty  ended, 
And  with  emotion  creaked  in  every  joint ; 

No  strain  of  hope  was  with  its  sorrow  blended,  — 
Backward,  all  backward,  did  it  look  and  point. 

"  My  dear  old  friend,"  thus  then  did  speak  the  mortal, 
"  Still  from  the  past  your  consolation  borrow ; 

Don't  look  a  moment  through  the  future's  portal, 

But  find  in  what  you  've  done  '  surcease  from  sorrow.' 

"  You  cannot  be  surprised  to  be  unheeded, 
When  you  contrast  your  feebleness  of  power 

With  younger  presses,  now  that,  lightning  speeded, 
Ten  tokens  give  us  for  your  one  an  hour. 

"  So  lie  right  down  and  talk  yourself  to  sleep, 
Like  some  old  crones  we  have  out  'neath  the  sun, 

Who,  with  an  everlasting  dulness,  keep 

Vexing  our  ears  with  tales  of  what  thej  've  done." 


THE  P60R  MAN'S  WEALTH. 

I  BOAST  no  broad  ancestral  lands, 

No  towers  of  lofty  pride ; 
I  have'  no  niche  where  Mammon  stands, 

For  worship  deified ; 
Mine  is  no  lofty  sounding  name, 

Allied  with  deeds  of  note, 
To  draw  the  meed  of  loud  acclaim 

From  many  a  brawling  throat. 

What  is  the  wealth  that  crowns  the  great, 

To  treasures  of  the  soul ! 
Let  me  enjoy  my  poor  estate, 

Beyond  the  world's  control, 
The  rich  man's  lot  I  '11  envy  not, 

His  life  of  downy  ease ; 
They  are  not  worth  a  passing  thought, 

Compared  with  scenes  like  these. 

There  's  music  in  the  gentle  stream 
That  murmurs  near  my  door  ; 

There  's  beauty  in  the  sun's  bright  beam 
That  gilds  the  meadow  o'er. 


16  THE  POOR  MAN'S  WEALTH. 

The  insect  sings  upon  the  flower, 

The  bird  upon  the  tree ; 
All  mine — all  mine — great  Nature's  dower- 

They  shine  and  sing  for  me  ! 

See  yon  lake,  flashing  in  the  light, 

O'er  which  the  white  sails  glide  ! 
Show  me  a  scene  more  bravely  bright, 

Or  one  of  richer  pride  : 
I  care  not  who  the  lake  may  own,  — 

If  great  or  rich  he  be,  — 
Its  market-worth  is  his  alone, 

Its  beauty  is  for  me  ! 

See  yonder  hill  its  head  uprear, 

And  frown  upon  the  plain  ! 
I  bless  the  grandeur  pictured  there, 

To  endlessly  remain ; 
The  mountain  breeze  I  love  to  feel  — 

This  lesson  it  instils : 
The  town  enslaves  with  bonds  of  steel, 

There  's  freedom  on  the  hills. 

The  rich,  upon  their  beds  of  down, 

Know  not  the  joy  I  claim 
When  sunbeams  first  yon  summit  crown 

With  dyes  of  heavenly  flame ; 
My  soul  soars  upwards  with  the  lay 

That  Nature's  myriads  raise, 
And  greets  the  newly  wakened  day 

With  thankfulness  and  praise. 


THE  POOR  MAN'S   WEALTH.  17 

Give  me  my  cottage  by  the  hill, 

My  life  of  humble  fare, 
My  little  plot  of  earth  to  till, 

And  love  my  home  to  share, 
A  heart  to  feel  for  others'  pain,  — 

Content  with  this,  and  health, 
My  lips  should  never  once  complain, 

Nor  ask  for  more  of  wealth. 
2 


YOUNG  GRIMES. 

Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  man, 
We  ne'er  shall  see  him  more  ; 

But  he  has  left  a  son,  who  bears 
The  name  that  old  Grimes  bore. 

He  wears  a  coat  of  latest  cut, 

His  hat  is  new  and  gay ; 
He  cannot  bear  to  view  distress, 

So  turns  from  it  away. 

His  pants  are  gaiters,  fitting  snug 

O'er  patent-leather  shoes ; 
His  hair  is  by  a  barber  curled ; 

He  smokes  cigars,  and  chews. 

A  chain  of  massive  gold  is  borne 

Above  his  flashy  vest ; 
His  clothes  are  better,  every  day, 

Than  were  old  Grimes' s  best. 
i 

He  wears  a  gold  watch  in  his  fob, 
From  it  hang  golden  seals ; 

He  daily  drives  around  the  town 
Behind  a  horse's  heels. 


YOUNG  GRIMES.  19 

In  fashion's  courts  he  constant  walks, 

Where  he  delight  doth  shed ; 
His  hands  are  white  and  very  soft, 

But  softer  is  his  head. 

He 's  six  feet  tall,  no  post  more  straight, 

His  teeth  are  pearly  white ; 
In  habits  he  is  sometimes  loose, 

And  sometimes  very  tight. 

His  manners  are  of  sweetest  grace, 

His  voice  of  softest  tone ; 
His  diamond  pin  's  the  very  one 

That  old  Grimes  used  to  own. 

His  jetty  hair  conceals  his  mouth, 

His  whiskers  hide  his  cheek ; 
He  has  an  aunt  of  Christian  mould, 

Of  temper  mild  and  meek. 

A  dickey  tall  adorns  his  face, 

His  neck  a  scarf  of  blue ; 
He  sometimes  goes  to  church,  for  change, 

And  sleeps  in  Grimes's  pew. 

He  sports  the  fastest  "  crab  "  in  town, 

Is  always  quick  to  bet ; 
He  never  knows  who  's  President, 

But  thinks  "  old  Tip  "  's  in  yet. 


20  TOCXG   GRIMES. 

fle  dissipates  the  cash  most  free, 

Is  lavish  as  the  air ; 
I  grieve  to  hear,  from  those  who  know, 

That  sometimes  he  will  swear. 

He  has  drunk  wines  of  every  kind, 
And  liquors  cold  and  hot ; 

Young  Grimes,  in  short,  is  just  that  sort 
Of  man  Old  Grimes  was  not. 


BALLAD   OF  THE  PISCATAQUA. 

[A   SLIGHT  AFFECTATION    OF  THE  ANTIQUE.] 
BLOODY  FIGHT  POINT.* 

IN  the  younger  days  of  the  colonies, 
When  minions  of  the  king  held  sway, 

Ere  the  towns  in  pride  began  to  rise 
By  swift  Piscataqua, 

Beside  its  ever-restless  tide 

Lay  two  plantations  fair  ; 
A  fertile  point  did  them  divide, 

Of  excellence  most  rare. 

Then  out  spoke  Captain  Wiggin,  bold,  — 

Captain  Thomas  was  he  hight,  — 
"  This  point  is  goodly  to  behold, 
With  richest  worth  bedight ; 

I 

*  A  severe  contest  arose  between  the  agents  of  the  two  plantations 
(now  Dover  and  Portsmouth)  respecting  the  settlement  of  a  point 
of  land  which  extended  into  the  river  from  the  south-western  shore, 
and  which  was  equally  convenient  for  both  plantations.  Wiggin 
began  to  make  improvements  upon  it ;  Neal  ordered  him  to  desist. 
Wiggin  persisted,  and  threatened  to  defend  his  right  by  the  sword  ; 
Neal  replied  in  the  same  determined  manner,  and  they  would  have 
proceeded  to  extremities,  if  some  more  moderate  persons  had  not 
persuaded  them  to  refer  the  dispute  to  their  employers.  From  these 
circumstances  the  contested  place  was  called  "  Bloody  Fight  Point," 
and  still  retains  that  name.  —  Adams'  Annals  of  Portsmouth. 


22  BALLAD  OP   THE  PISCATAQUA. 

"  And  here  I  '11  plant  the  yellow  grain, 
And  here  the  axe  shall  sound, 

And  golden  crops  shall  crowd  my  wain, 
And  plenty  aye  abound." 

Then  up  spake  Captain  Walter  Neal  — 
"  Now,  by  my  faith,  not  so  ! 

To  weapons  dire  I  '11  make  appeal, 
Ere  onward  thus  thou  'It  go. 

"  For  unto  the  Lower  Plantation 
Doth  this  fair  point  belong, 

And  I,  for  its  full  possession, 
Will  battle  long  and  strong." 

Then  stoutly  spoke  Captain  Thomas, 
For  a  gallant  man  was  he : 

"  When  you  're  able  to  take  it  from  us, 
To  yield  it  I  '11  agree." 

Then  Captain  Neal  turned  deadly  white, 
Brim  full  was  he  of  rage ; 

He  ground  his  teeth  in  fearful  spite, 
And  threatened  war  to  wage. 

And  Captain  Thomas  Wiggin,  he 
Looked  stern  and  very  wroth, 

And  vowed  a  fight  he  'd  like  to  see, 
For  combat  nothing  loth. 


BALLAD  OF   THE  PISCATAQUA.  23 

Great  woe  did  seize  good  people  then, 

Such  sad  thing  for  to  see, 
As  two  so  gallant  gentlemen 

Thus  sorely  disagree. 

And  interposed  did  their  word, 

The  discord  to  allay ; 
And  peace  again  their  bosoms  stirred, 

Before  so  fierce  for  fray. 

Then  "  Bloody  Fight  Point "  that  spot  was  hight ; 

Not  from  its  hue,  I  ween, 
Nor  yet  for  its  ensanguined  fight, 

But  for  blood  it  might  have  seen, 

Had  Captain  Wiggin  and  Captain  Neal 

There  met  in  mortal  fight, 
And  the  arbitration  of  biting  steel 

Had  settled  their  quarrel  right. 

Now  Bloody  Fight  Point  is  a  peaceful  spot, 

On  Newington's  tranquil  shore, 
And  Neal  and  Wiggin  are  both  forgot, 

Save  in  history's  musty  lore. 


THE  EARTH  AND  THINGS. 

Some  people  love  to  groan  over  the  text  that  "  the  earth  is  waxing 
old,  like  a  garment." 

THE  brave  old  earth  in  space  is  swinging 

As  gayly  as  when  God  first  arrayed  her, 
When  the  stars  of  morn  with  joy  were  singing 

Praises  to  Him  whose  hand  had  made  her  ; 
Her  bowers  as  green,  and  her  flowers  as  bright 

As  brightly  shining  the  sun  around  her, 
As  when  its  newly -kindled  light 

In  the  darksome  gloom  of  chaos  found  her. 

What  to  her  is  the  paltry  year, 

That  makes  the  calendar  of  the  mortal  ? 
In  the  onward  march  of  her  career, 

She  has  but  entered  at  its  portal ; 
Rejoicing  yet  in  her  pride  and  bloom, 

She  rolleth  around  her  track  diurnal, 
No  nearer  seeming  her  day  of  doom 

Than  when  first  formed  by  the  great  Eternal. 

The  heaving  deep  makes  loud  acclaim 

To  heaven,  which  answereth  back  the  chorus, 

While  earthquake  tones,  'mid  smoke  and  flame, 
Join  in  the  peal  with  note  sonorous ; 


THE   EARTH   AND   THINGS.  25 

The  hurricane's  boisterous  breath 
Wildly  soundeth  o'er  land  and  ocean, 

Bearing  here  to  a  quick-sped  death, 
And  there  awaking  to  stern  commotion. 

The  birds  sing  sweet  in  the  leafy  trees, 

The  bees  are  humming  in  summer  bowers, 
And  the  blandly-blowing  western  breeze 

Is  wafting  wide  the  odor  of  flowers ; 
The  water-rills  are  speeding  along, 

And  is  heard  the  fountain's  music  rushing. 
And  the  human  heart  beats  time  to  the  song 

That  on  every  side  is  in  melody  gushing. 

All  go  to  form  the  anthem  grand, 

From  the  earthquake's  sound  to  the  rippling  river, 
Harmonious  singing  o'er  sea  and  land, 

As  at  beginning,  so  on  forever ! 
As  grandly  now  is  the  anthem  ringing, 

In  earth,  as  when  God  first  arrayed  her ; 
When  the  stars  of  morn  with  joy  were  singing 

Praises  to  Him  whose  hand  had  made  her. 


\ 
LITTLE  EMMA  GOING  TO  SLEEP. 

SWEET  night-capped  traveller  to  the  realm  of  dreams, 
Now  droops  thine  eye  towards  its  calm  repose ; 

Forgotten  are  the  various  joyous  schemes 
And  childish  fancies  that  before  thee  rose. 

The  day  was  all  too  short  for  their  employ, 
And  the  fast  waning  of  the  autumn  sun 

Curbed  the  swift  current  of  thy  noisy  joy, 
That  bore  thee  onward  till  the  day  was  done. 

The  last  beam  fadeth  from  thy  gentle  eye, 
Sleep  claims  dominion,  and  beneath  its  sway 

Thy  spirit  on  unfettered  wing  may  fly 
From  earth  and  its  allurements  far  away ; 

To  drink,  perchance,  from  some  celestial  rill, 
To  breathe  a  purer  atmosphere  than  ours, 

To  hear  blest  notes  from  angel  harps  distil. 
To  catch  sweet  odors  from  immortal  flowers ; 

To  view  fair  scenes  bright  spirits  lead  thee  through, 
Clothed  in  the  beauteous  hues  that  Faith  reveals, 

Until  the  day  again  its  sway  renew, 

And  its  first  dawning  thy  bright  eye  unseals. 


LITTLE   EMMA   GOING   TO   SLEEP.  27 

0,  could  we  sink  thus  calmly  to  our  rest, 
Who,  older  grown,  have  felt  the  weight  of  care ! 

We  seek  our  pillows  with  a  troubled  breast, 
And  weary  hours  of  thought  attend  us  there. 

My  child !  I  bend  me  gently  o'er  thy  bed, 
And  listen  to  thy  breathing  soft  and  light ; 

A  soothing  influence  doth  its  calmness  shed, 
And  innocence  here  sanctifies  the  night. 


THE  POOR  FARM. 

THE  traveller  man  looketh  over  the  wall 

Where  the  pauper  poor  is  hoeing ; 
The  corn  is  sickly  and  very  small, 

As  if  too  weak  to  be  growing. 

And  the  leaves  on  the  trees  are  sparse  and  dry, 
And  the  weeds  are  so  thin  and  drooping, 

They  scarcely  the  strength  of  the  pauper  try, 
As  he  for  their  ruin  is  stooping. 

"  Old  fellow,"  then  cried  the  traveller  man, 

As  he  looked  there  over  the  wall, 
"Isn't  this  the  spot, — just  say,  if  you  can, — 

That  people  the  '  Poor  Farm '  call  ?  " 

Then  the  pauper  rested  upon  his  hoe, 

And  the  traveller  man  he  scanned, 
As  he  wiped  his  hand  on  his  trousers  of  tow, 

And  then  wiped  his  brow  with  his  hand. 

"The  '  poor  farm,'  I  fegs !  "  quoth  the  pauper  poor, 

"  And  well  may  they  call  it  so ; 
For,  'tween  you  and  me  and  the  work-house  door, 

'T  is  the  poorest  farm  I  know." 


THE   POOK   PARM.  29 

Then  loudly  did  laugh  the  pauper  bold,  — 

He  laughed  with  a  goodly  cheer, 
And  the  traveller's  blood  ran  chill  and  cold 

Such  levity  to  hear. 

'Tis  bad  in  the  reckless  city's  round 

To  list  to  the  horrid  pun, 
But  it  comes  with  a  force  far  more  profound 

From  the  lips  of  a  work-house  one. 


POVERTY  IN  A  SHOWER. 

"  The  rough  river  ran."  —  HOOD. 

ONE  more  unfortunate, 

Wet  to  the  skin, 
Very  importunate, 

Wants  to  get  in. 

Take  him  up  speedily, 
x      Stop  now  the  'bus ; 
What  care  though  seedily 
Looks  he  to  us  ? 

See,  the  poor  fellow 
Has  got  no  umbrella, 

Whilst  the  rain  patters, 
Soaking  his  jacket, 

Hanging  in  tatters !  — 
Tin,  doth  he  lack  it  ? 

Treat  him  not  scornfully, 
He  is  not  corned  fully, 

He  is  thy  brother ; 
Open  thy  door  for  him, 
Show  him  there  's  store  for  him- 

Room  for  another. 


POVERTY   IN   A   SHOWER.  31 

Make  no  deep  studying 
Into  his  muddying, 

Damp  and  unhealthy ; 
Kain  is  a  leveller,  — 
Treat  the  poor  traveller 

Well  as  if  wealthy. 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  practical  charity 

Under  the  sun ! 
0 !  it  is  pitiful, 
In  a  whole  city  full, 

'Brel  has  he  none. 

Stands  on  the  sidewalk, 
After  a  wide  walk, 
.  Money  all  spent ; 
His  deep  pocket  feeling, 
No  cash  there  revealing, 
Not  a  red  cent ! 

The  cold  April  storms 

Make  him  tremble  like  aspen ; 
No  'bus  opes  its  arms, 

His  form  to  be  clasping  ; 
Mad  at  the  luck  of  it, 
Sad  at  the  duck  of  it, 

Glad  to  be  ta'en 
Anywhere,  anywhere 

Out  of  the  rain. 


32  POVERTY  IN  A  SHOWEK. 

Take  him  up  speedily, 
Man  of  the  'bus ; 

Poor,  he  looks  seedily, 
Poorer  his  purse. 

In  he  steps  gloomily, 
Don't  think  contumely, 
Don't  make  a  pother,  — 
He  is  thy  brother, 

Sad  and  distrest ; 
Be  now  his  protector, 
Then  leave  the  collector 

To  settle  the  rest ! 


THE  SKELETON  SCHOONER. 

THE  moon  comes  up  from  Dorchester, 

From  Dorchester  behind, 
And  gloomy  clouds  scud  through  the  sky, 

Borne  on  the  midnight  wind ; 

And  stillness  broods  above  the  land, 

A  stillness  strange  and  dread, 
Like  the  hush  of  terror-stricken  men 

In  presence  of  the  dead. 

Upon  South  Boston's  upper  bridge 

I  take  my  pensive  stand, 
And  gaze  upon  the  rippling  waves, 

And  on  the  shadowy  land. 

I  gaze  upon  the  watery  waves 

That  wander  there  away, 
Where  the  skeleton  dark  of  the  shattered  bark 

Is  shown  in  the  moon's  dim  ray. 

I  see  her  low  in  her  loneliness 

Lean  on  her  leaky  side ; 
Her  masts  are  bowed,  and,  void  of  shroud, 

Hang  listless  o'er  the  tide ; 
3 


34  THE   SKELETON   SCHOOXEB. 

And  here  and  there  upon  the  air 

The  ropes  swing  wildly  free, 
As  if  they  'd  fain  to  feel  again 

The  heaving  of  the  sea. 

And  high  up  on  the  drooping  masts 

The  rotting  halyards  scream, 
And  the  sounds  take  form  in  my  fancy  warm 

Of  voices  in  a  dream. 

She  rights !  she  rights !  —  afloat  once  more  — 

I  see  her  peopled  deck, 
And  her  white  sails  gleam  in  the  pale  moonbeam 

Withouten  shade  or  speck. 

Now  on  and  on,  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind, 

That  ghostly  vessel  glides ; 
No  ripple,  I  trow,  from  her  rushing  prow, 

No  gleam  from  her  moss-grown  sides. 

And  her  sails  hang  idly  swinging, 

As  if  God's  blessed  gale 
Withheld  its  aid,  or  was  afraid 

To  fill  that  spectral  sail. 

Still  on  and  on,  o'er  the  waters  blue, 

Nor  heeding  wind  nor  tide. 
Like  phantom  dread  from  realms  of  the  dead, 

The  skeleton  bark  doth  glide. 


THE  SKELETON  SCHOONER.  35 

A  light !  —  a  blue  and  ghastly  glare  — 

Shoots  upward  from  below, 
And  the  shadowy  men  and  the  shadowy  ship 

Are  shown  in  its  hideous  glow. 

A  frightful  shriek  disturbs  the  air !  — 

A  shriek  both  loud  and  clear, 
That  echoes  around  to  the  distant  bound, 

Which  my  spirit  shrinks  to  hear. 

My  doom  be  stayed !  —  'twas  thus  I  prayed, 

As  a  demon  shook  my  arm. 
"Say,"  cried  a  voice,  "  don't  be  afraid, 

I  don't  mean  ye  any  harm ! " 

'T  was  the  watch — and  there  on  the  bridge  I  'd  slept, 

In  the  midnight  damp  and  chill ; 
And  the  skeleton  gray  before  me  lay 

All  dreary,  and  dark,  and  still. 


THE  SUMMER  RAIN. 

THE  farmer's  heart  was  sad,  his  toil  was  vain, 
His  famished  crops  were  crisping  in  the  field, 

For  not  one  drop  of  life-sustaining  rain 

Did  the  red  clouds  of  summer  deign  to  yield. 

The  cattle  'neath  the  trees,  with  lolling  tongue, 
Gave  up  the  search  for  herbage  in  despair, 

And  listless  in  the  shade  their  heads  they  hung, 
And  chewed  their  cuds  with  most  desponding  air. 

The  brook  was  dry,  or  stood,  a  muddy  pool, 

Whose  stagnant  waters  none  might  dare  to  drink, 

Which  late,  in  crystal  brightness,  pure  and  cool, 
Wooed  with  its  song  the  thirsty  to  its  brink. 

The  burning  sun  drank  up  the  pearly  dew 
That  evening,  pitying,  on  creation  shed, 

And  o'er  the  parched  earth  his  hot  beams  threw  — 
The  herbage  sickened  and  the  flowers  lay  dead. 

The  river  shimmered  in  his  lurid  rays, 

The  corn  grew  dry  and  withered  as  it  stood, 

The  fainting  birds  scarce  raised  their  tuneful  lays 
In  dim  recesses  of  the  ancient  wood. 


THE   SUMMER   RAIN.  37 

Then  man  and  vegetation  prayed  for  rain  — 

The  withered  stalks,  like  famished  hands,  were  raised ; 

But  day  by  day  was  man's  petition  vain, 
The  clouds  arose  and  vanished  as  he  gazed. 

At  length  the  blessed  boon,  so  long  withheld, 
Came  like  an  angel  down  in  man's  dismay, 

Cheering  the  heart  that  well-nigh  had  rebelled, 
And  giving  joy  where  grief  erewhile  held  sway. 

The  thirsty  earth  drank  in,  with  greedy  tongue, 
The  cooling  flood  that  trickled  o'er  its  breast ; 

The  trees  abroad  their  arms  enraptured  flung, 

And  grass  and  flower  once  more  upreared  their  crest ; 

The  brooks  again  resumed  their  gladsome  song, 
And  through  the  meadows  took  their  cheerful  way ; 

Once  more  the  corn  its  verdant  pennons  flung, 
Once  more  the  birds  made  merry  on  the  spray. 

The  farmer's  heart  grew  glad,  and  on  his  knee, 
His  voice  attuned  with  warm  devotion's  strain, 

He  poured  his  soul  in  gratitude  to  see 
The  blessed  coming  of  the  summer  rain  — 

Which  falls,  like  God's  own  spirit,  on  the  dust 
Of  man's  fallen  nature,  dead  ia  sin  and  pain, 

Till  with  a  newer  hope  and  holier  trust 
It  wakens  into  life  and  joy  again. 


UNFAILING  SIGNS. 

WHEN  the  wind  blows  from  the  orient 

Be  certain  it  will  rain ; 
When  the  wind  blows  from  the  Occident 

'T  will  soon  be  fair  again. 

Good  Mrs.  Goodwin  hung  her  line, 
And  called  for  her  maiden  Ann ; 

For  the  day  was  fair  and  the  day  was  fine, 
And  she  her  washing  began. 

And  her  face  was  bright 

With  joy  and  hope, 
And  her  clothes  were  white 

With  soda  and  soap, 
And  over  the  tub  she  wrung  and  wrung, 
While  merrily,  merrily  ran  her  tongue, 
As  on  to  the  line  her  clothes  she  flung ; 

And  out  on  the  air, 

Like  banners  fair, 
The  garments  fluttered  with  freedom  rare. 

But  the  wind  blew  east,  and  her  neighbor  said 

That  it  boded  rain  and  trouble, 
And  the  water  that  simmered  on  the  crane 

Rose  up  in  many  a  bubble. 


UNFAILING   SIGNS*  39 

But  good  Mrs.  Goodwin  kept  right  on, 

Nor  heeded  the  tokens  plain  ; 
She  should  have  known,  the  foolish  one  ! 

That  it  boded  naught  but  rain ; 

She  should  have  seen  that  the  wind  was  east, 

And  spared  her  present  toil,  — 
'T  is  a  hard,  hard  thing  those  clothes  to  wring, 

And  harder  to  have  them  spoil. 

Good  Mrs.  Goodwin  heard  never  a  word, 

But  kept  on  with  her  wringing, 
And  though  the  wind  blew  most  dismally  blue, 

She  lightened  her  care  with  singing. 

But  her  neighbor  knew, 
And  all  day  through 

She  watched  for  rain  and  squall ; 
But  the  sun  shone  bright, 
In  her  despite, 

And  it  did  n't  rain  at  all. 

Then  good  Mrs.  Goodwin  laughed  right  loud, 

0,  merrily  laughed  she ! — 
Who  watch  for  rain  may  watch  in  vain ; 

Best  wait  till  it  comes,  like  me. 

'T  is  best  not  borrow  the  woe  of  to-morrow 

To-day's  enjoyment  to  crowd, 
If  the  sun  shines  bright,  improve  its  light, 

Nor  think  of  to-morrow's  cloud. 


WHAT  WAS  IT  ALL  ABOUT? 

WRITTEN  IN  REFERENCE   TO   THE   GREAT   RAILROAD   JUBILEE   OP  183 

THE  City  of  Boston  "  gin  a  treat," 
And  folks  came  far  and  near  to  see, 

And  all  who  had  the  good  luck  to  see  't 
In  praise  thereof  did  loudly  agree, 

And  said  that  for  splendor  it  could  n't  be  beat, 
'Cause  everything  was  given  'em  free. 

President  and  Governors  all  were  there, 
And  Elgin's  lord,  and  the  Lord  knows  who, 

And  mighty  men  from  everywhere, 

With  some  that  were  n't  so  mighty,  too ; 

And  ladies  rich  and  ladies  fair 

Looked  smilingly  on,  as  they  always  do. 

And  steamers,  with  streamers  all  afloat, 
Gallantly  ploughed  Massachusetts  Bay, 

That  strangers  might  have  a  chance  to  note, 
By  a  look  at  the  water,  just  how  the  land  lay 

But  the  salt  in  the  air  parched  every  throat,  — 
That  water  would  n't  relieve,  they  say. 

But  on  board  there  luckily  chanced  to  be 
Whole  baskets  full  of  the  "  Newark  brand," 

And,  though  obnoxious  to  those  like  me, 
The  corks  popped  briskly  on  every  hand ; 


WHAT  WAS   IT  ALL   ABOUT  1  41 

It  was  a  most  spirited  sight  to  see, 

That  the  shoreman  rarely  views  on  land. 

The  streets  with  bunting  were  gayly  spread, 

They  colors  of  every  kind  did  don ; 
It  needed  a  head  extensively  read 

All  their  significance  to  con ; 
But  some  sagaciously  winked,  and  said 

That  Boston  was  putting  her  flannels  on. 

And  the  people  made  a  stir  in  the  fun, 

And  had  "  the  Trades  "  all  a-marching  out, 

With  banners  and  mottoes,  every  one, 

And  workmen  a-working,  with  muscles  stout ; 

Though  we  question  if  many  a  mother's  son 
Could  tell  what  the  hubbub  was  all  about 

And  marshals  and  aids,  upon  coursers  gay, 
"  And  constables  with  painted  poles," 

And  soldiers,  ready  for  warlike  fray, 
All  candidates  for  immortal  scrolls, 

Swelled  up  the  pageant  which  graced  the  day,' 
But  what  't  was  for  did  n't  vex  their  souls. 

Men  met  to  feast,  and  the  speakers  spoke ; 

0,  long  and  loud  did  the  spouters  spout ! 
And  many  a  jibe  and  many  a  joke 

Did  the  "  grand  occasion  "  worry  out; 
There  was  much  of  fire,  but  more  of  smoke, 

But  few  knew  what  it  was  all  about. 


42  WHAT   WAS   IT   ALL   ABOUT  1 

Well,  the  City  of  Boston  "  gin  a  treat," 
And  the  people  relished  the  noise  and  rout, 

Their  voices  were  heard  in  every  street, 
Hurraing  loudly  with  lungs  most  stout ; 

But  we  guess,  of  all  who  were  there  to  see  't, 
Very  few  knew  what 't  was  all  about. 


MYSTEKIOUS  KAPPINGS. 

LATE  one  evening  I  was  sitting,  gloomy  shadows  round 

me  flitting,  — 

Mrs.  Partington,  a-knitting,  occupied  the  grate  before ; 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  patter,  a  slight  and  very  trifling  matter, 
As  if  it  were  a  thieving  rat  or  mouse  within  my  closet  door ; 
A  thieving  and  mischievous  rat  or  mouse  within  my  closet 

door,  — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  all  my  dreaminess  forsook  me  j  rising  up,  I  straight 
way  shook  me, 

A  light  from  off  the  table  took,  and  swift  the  rat's  destruc 
tion  swore ; 

Mrs.  P.  smiled  approbation  on  my  prompt  determination, 

And  without  more  hesitation  oped  I  wide  the  closet  door ; 

Boldly,  without  hesitation  opened  wide  the  closet  door ; 
Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more ! 

As  upon  the  sound  I  pondered,  what  the  deuce  it  was  1 

wondered ; 
Could  it  be  my  ear  had  blundered,  as  at  times  it  had 

before  ? 


44  MYSTERIOUS   RAPPISGS. 

But  scarce  again  was  I  reseated,  ere  I  heard  the  sound 

repeated, 
The  same  dull  patter  that  had  greeted  me  from  out  the 

closet  door ; 
The  same  dull  patter  that  had  greeted  me  from  out  the 

closet  door ; 

A  gentle  patter,  nothing  more. 

Then  my  rage  arose  unbounded,  —  "  "What,"  cried  I,  "  is 

this  confounded 
Noise  with  which  my  ear  is  wounded  —  noise  I  've  never 

heard  before  ? 

If 't  is  presage  dread  of  evil,  if 't  is  made  by  ghost  or  devil, 
I  call  on  ye  to  be  more  civil  — '  stop  that  knocking  at  the 

door!' 
Stop  that  strange  mysterious  knocking  there,  within  my 

closet  door ; 

Grant  me  this,  if  nothing  more." 

Once    again   I  seized  the  candle,   rudely  grasped  the 

latehet's  handle, 
Savage  as  a  Goth  or  Vandal,  that  kicked  up  rumpuses  of 

yore,  - 
"  What  the  dickens  is  the  matter,"  said  I,  "to  produce 

this  patter  ?  " 
To  Mrs.  P.,  and  looked  straight  at  her.     "  I  don't  know," 

said  she,  "  I  'm  shore ; 
Lest  it  be  a  pesky  rat,  or  something,  I  don't  know,  I  'm 

shore." 

This  she  said,  and  nothing  more. 


MYSTERIOUS  RAPPIN'GS.  45 

Still  the  noise  kept  on  unceasing ;  evidently  'twas  increasing; 
Like  a  cart-wheel  wanting  greasing,  wore  it  on  my  nerves 

full  sore; 
Patter,  patter,  patter,  patter,  the  rain  the  while  made 

noisy  clatter, 
My  teeth  with  boding  ill  did  chatter,  as  when  I  'm  troubled 

by  a  bore  — 
Some  prosing,  dull,  and  dismal  fellow,  coming  in  but  just 

to  bore ; 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

All  night  long  it  kept  on  tapping ;  vain  I  laid  myself  for 

napping, 
Calling  sleep  my  sense  to  wrap  in  darkness  till  the  night 

was  o'er ; 
A  dismal  candle,  dimly  burning,  watched  me  as  I  lay 

there  turning, 
In  desperation  wildly  yearning  that  sleep  would  visit  me 

once  more ; 

Sleep,  refreshing  sleep,  did  I  most  urgently  implore ; 
This  I  wished,  and  nothing  more. 

With  the  day  I  rose  nest  morning,  and,  all  idle  terror 

scorning, 
Went  to  finding  out  the  warning  that  annoyed  me  so 

before ; 
When  straightway,  to  my  consternation,  daylight  made 

the  revelation 

Of  a  scene  of  devastation  that  annoyed  me  very  sore, 
Such  a  -scene  of  devastation  as  annoyed  me  very  sore ; 
This  it  was,  and  nothing  more : 


46  MYSTERIOUS  EAPPINQS. 

The  rotten  roof  had  taken  leaking,  and  the  rain,  a  passage 

seeking, 
Through  the  murky  darkness  sneaking,  found  my  hat-box 

on  the  floor ; 
There,  exposed  to  dire  disaster,  lay  my  bran-new  Sunday 

castor, 
And  its  hapless,  luckless  master  ne'er  shall  see  its  beauties 

more  — 

Ne'er  shall  see  its  glossy  beauty,  that  his  glory  was  before ; 
It  is  gone,  forevennore ! 


THE   CONSUMPTIVE. 

SHE  faded,  0,  she  faded  ! 

And  the  roses  fled  her  cheek, 
And  her  voice,  that  carolled  like  a  bird's, 

Grew  tremulous  and  weak  ! 
Her  parched  lips  softly  whispered 

The  sweet  words  she  would  say, 
And  her  cold,  thin  hand  was  pale  and  still 

As  the  sheet  whereon  it  lay. 

But  her  spirit  glowed  the  brighter, 

As  her  mortal  end  drew  nigh,  — 
It  beamed  with  heavenly  radiance 

In  the  lustre  of  her  eye ; 
She  seemed  to  borrow  glories 

From  the  world  she  nearer  drew, 
And,  as  the  form  of  earth  decayed, 

Her  angel  nature  grew. 

And. patiently,  how  patiently! 

She  pressed  her  bed  of  pain, 
As,  sun  by  sun,  the  days  declined, 

And  then  renewed  again ; 
Her  Father's  hand  she  recognized, 

And  kissed  the  chastening  rod, 
And  calmly  waited  for  the  hour      tf 

When  she  should  soar  to  God. 


48  THE   CONSUMPTIVE. 

And  friends  who  gathered  round  her 

Took  comfort  from  her  tone ; 
They  felt  that  she  was  not  for  earth's, 

But  heaven's  joys  alone ; 
And  when  the  angel  severed 

The  ties  that  bound  her  here, 
Her  transit  filled  their  hearts  with  joy  — 

Their  own  loss  claimed  a  tear. 

0,  Death  !  when  thus  approaching, 

An  angel  form  you  take, 
And  pour  the  healing  balm  for  hearts 

That  otherwise  might  break, 
We  see  thy  path  a  way  of  light, 

Ascending  to  the  sky, 
And  pray  an  end  thus  fraught  with  bliss  — 

A  death  thus  blest  to  die. 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   JILTED    ONE, 

A  SWEETER  girl  I  never  knew 

Than  Juliana  Lownds,  — 
A  lump  of  loveliness  she  grew, 

And  weighed  two  hundred  pounds. 

Her  form  majestic  was  and  straight, 

It  queenly  graces  bore, 
And  as  she  walked  she  showed  a  gait 

Which  men  liked  to  adore. 

* 

Her  voice  !  —  ah !  in  it  dwelt  a  charm,  — 

One  likewise  in  her  fist ; 
For  power  great  was  in  her  arm, 

That  few  might  dare  resist. 

Her  skin  was  fair, — ah !  very  fair, — 
Her  teeth  were  white  as  pearls  ; 

A  charming  auburn  was  her  hair, 
Which  hung  in  corkscrew  curls. 

Her  mouth  was  just  that  comely  sort 
'T  would  sore  provoke  to  kiss  it,  — 

'T  would  buss  you  for  the  asking  for 't, 
And  never  seem  to  miss  it. 
4 


50  THE   SONG   OP   THE  JILTED   OXE. 

Her  eyes  were  of  the  heavenly  hue, 
And  roguish  in  their  beaming ; 

A  glance  would  pierce  the  toughest  through, 
And  set  the  tender  dreaming. 

Her  blush  was  like  the  clover  red ; 

Her  smile,  the  sunbeam  gay ; 
Her  frown,  the  black  cloud  overhead ; 

Her  breath,  the  new-mown  hay. 

Her  nose  was  Nature's  fairest  show,  — 
Sculptor  ne'er  dreamed  a  richer ; 

Though  envious  ones  compared  it  to 
The  nose  upon  a  pitcher. 

• 
And  how  I  loved  fair  Julian. ! 

And  how  I  spent  my  money  ! 
My  life's  young  current  seeming  ran 
With  naught  but  wine  and  honey. 

And  every  hour  of  every  day, 
With  glances  warm  as  tinder, 

I  watched  my  charmer  o'er  the  way, 
As  she  worked  by  a  "  winder." 

Alas !  how  human  hopes  decay ! 

How  love's  repasts  grow  colder ! 
We  dine  on  strawberries  to-day, 

To-morrow  get  cold  shoulder. 


THE  SONG  OF   THE  JILTED  ONE.  51 

False  Juliana  cast  me  by, 

And  wedded  with  a  baker ; 
We  had  a  fight — I  blacked  his  eye, 

And  let  the  loafer  take  her. 

Time,  time  has  flown,  and  I  'm  unwed, 

And  Fame  has  been  the  jewel 
That  I  with  hope  have  worshipped, 

Nor  found  her  cold  or  cruel. 

And  Juliana,  fair  no  more, 

Has  portlier  grown  than  ever ; 
A  baker's  dozen  round  her  door, 

A  husband  far  from  clever. 

I  see  him  reel  from  dram-shops  low, 

Most  desperately  wilted, 
And  ask  myself,  "  Can  it  be  so, 

That  I  for  him  was  jilted  ?  " 

And  Juliana  sees  me  pass, 

I  know,  with  thought  regretful ; 
I  hear  her  scold,  alas !  alas ! 

With  accents  harsh  and  fretful. 

And  at  such  times,  I  greatly  fear, 

Her  seedy  spouse,  the  baker, 
May,  as  he  quails  her  notes  to  hear, 

Wish  that  the might  take  her. 


THE  OLD  PRINTER. 

A.  FAKCY  SKETCH,  BUT  TOO  NEAR  THE  TRUTH  TO  MAKE  HUGH  FUN  OF. 

I  SEE  him  at  his  case, 

With  his  anxious,  cheerless  face, 

Worn  and  brown ; 
And  the  types'  unceasing  click, 
As  they  drop  within  his  stick, 
Seems  of  Life's  old  clock  the  tick, 

Running  down. 

I  've  known  him  many  a  year, 
That  old  Type,  bent  and  queer,  — 

Boy  and  man  ;  — 
Time  was  when  step  elate 
Distinguished  his  gait, 
And  his  form  was  tall  and  straight, 

We  now  scan. 

I  've  marked  him,  day  by  day, 
As  he  passed  along  the  way 

To  his  toil ; 

He 's  labored  might  and  main, 
A  living  scant  to  gain, 
And  some  interest  small  attain 

In  the  soil. 


THE   OLD   PRINTEB.  53 

And  hope  was  high  at  first, 
And  the  golden  cheat  he  nursed, 

Till  he  found 

That  hope  was  but  a  glare 
In  a  cold  and  frosty  air, 
And  the  promise,  pictured  fair, 

Barren  ground. 

He  ne'er  was  reckoned  bad, 

But  I  've  seen  him  smile  right  glad 

At  "  leaded  "  woes, 
"While  a  dark  and  lowering  frown 
Would  spread  his  features  round, 
Where  virtue's  praise  did  sound, 

If 'twere  "close." 

Long  years  he 's  labored  on, 
And  the  rosy  hues  are  gone 

From  his  sky ; 
For  others  are  his  hours, 
For  others  are  his  powers,  — 
His  days,  uncheered  by  flowers, 

Flitting  by. 

You  may  see  him,  night  by  night, 
By  the  lamp's  dull,  dreamy  light, 

Standing  there ; 
With  cobweb  curtains  spread 
In  festoons  o'er  his  head, 
That  sooty  showers  shed 

In  his  hair. 


54  THE   OLD   PRINTER. 

And  when  the  waning  moon 
Proclaims  of  night  the  noon, 

If  you  roam, 

You  may  see  him,  weak  and  frail, 
As  his  weary  steps  do  fail, 
In  motion  like  the  snail, 

Wending  home. 

His  form  by  years  is  bent, 
To  his  hair  a  tinge  is  lent 

Sadly  gray ; 

And  his  teeth  have  long  decayed, 
And  his  eyes  their  trust  betrayed,  • 
Great  havoc  Time  has  made 

With  his  clay ! 

But  soon  will  come  the  day 
When  his  form  will  pass  away 

From  our  view, 

And  the  spot  shall  know  no  more 
The  sorrows  that  he  bore, 
Or  the  disappointments  sore 

That  he  knew. 


THE   THREE    LOCKS. 

• 
I  LAY  them  gently  on  my  open  palm  — 

Three  locks  of  hair  —  the  golden,  dark  and  white ; 
My  spirit  wakes  from  apathetic  calm, 

As  the  known  tokens  greet  my  eager  sight. 

And  Memory  beckons  from  the  distant  past 
A  train  of  spectral  fancies  to  my  ken  ; 

Age,  Youth  and  Childhood, —  0,  how  sweet  and  fast 
Come  love  and  joy  to  my  cold  heart  again ! 

FATHER  !  I  see  thee  now,  as  when  thy  prime 

Gave  vigorous  promise  of  thy  lengthened  years,  — 

That  a  broad  lapse  would  intervene  in  time, 
Dividing  present  joy  from  future  tears. 

And  the  assurance  given  was  fulfilled ; 

A  garner  full  of  years  was  life  to  thee, 
And  when  that  kindly  heart  in  death  was  stilled, 

We  kissed  the  rod,  and  bowed  to  Heaven's  decree. 

Calmly  to  death,  to  sleep  serene,  thou  passed ; 

World-worn  and  weary,  thou  wert  ready  now  ! 
Strange  that  my  tears  should  flow  so  free  and  fast 

As  when  this  lock  I  took  from  off  thy  brow. 


56  THE   THREE   LOCKS. 

BROTHER  !  the  raven's  sable  plume  ne'er  shone 

With  glossier  lustre  in  the  eye  of  day 
Than  this  last  trophy  which  affection  won 

From  the  loved  form  that  cold  before  me  lay. 

O,  Death  !  how  bitter  was  the  pang  when  riven 
Became  the  tender  bond  which  bound  him  here  ! 

0,  Death !  a  sadder  blow  thou  ne'er  hast  given 
Than  that  which  brought  him  to  his  early  bier. 

In  the  young  spring-time  of  his  days  he  passed 

From  youth's  allurements  and  from  scenes  of  earth,  • 

As  the  bright  morning  may  be  overcast 
Ere  many  hours  shall  smile  upon  its  birth. 

MY  CHILD  !  my  dimming  eyes  behold  thee  still, 
As  when  thy  little  hand  in  mine  was  pressed  ; 

As  when  my  pulse  with  rapture  wild  would  thrill, 
To  feel  thy  young  heart  throb  against  my  breast ; 

As  when  that  golden  curl  would  sweetly  blend 
With  the  bright  glory  of  thy  radiant  eye, 

And  such  a  beauty  to  thy  face  did  lend 

As  stilled  the  thought  that  thou  couldst  ever  die  ; 

As  when  thy  prattling  tongue  would  greet  mine  ear 
With  the  glad  accent  of  a  dawning  love  ; 

As  when  thy  promise  made  my  pathway  here 
A  blessed  forecast  of  the  bliss  above. 


THE   THREE   LOCKS.  57 

I  weave  a  braid,  —  the  gold,  the  dark,  the  white,  — 
They  mingle  well,  these  types  of  human  life  ! 

The  calm  of  Age,  Youth's  hope,  the  Child's  delight,  — 
The  simple  cord  with  eloquence  is  rife. 

Brief  is  the  time  dividing  old  and  young  — 
A  step  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave ; 

Death's  shadow  o'er  the  manly  oak  is  flung, 
Ere  yet  its  youthful  glories  cease  to  wave. 


THE   MAN  IN  THE  'BUS. 

"  ONE  pull  for  the  right !  "  and  he  quailed  as  he  read, 

For  it  quickened  to  life  a  conscience  long  dead ; 

And  an  ocean  of  memories  rushed  through  his  mind 

Of  duties  neglected,  occasions  declined, 

Where,  acting  with  heart  and  generous  might, 

He  oft  could  have  given  "  one  pull  for  the  right;"  — 

Occasions  long  past,  to  be  recalled  never, 

Evanished  and  gone,  like  his  power,  forever ! 

And  he  mused  on  the  text,  and  felt,  as  he  mused, 

Like  one  who  was  judged  for  past  powers  abused, 

And  he  sighed  that  the  world  should  have  shut  from  the 

light 

That  cardinal  duty,  to  "  pull  for  the  right." 
And  wrong  unadjusted  rose  up  in  his  view,  — 
Old  evils,  world  old,  that  had  led  on  to  new, 
Where  might,  unregarding  the  right  or  the  just, 
Crushed  the  humble  and  lowly  with  wrongs  to  the  dust ; 
Where  the  money-god's  altar  had  risen  on  high, 
And  gold  made  the  standard  to  gauge  virtue  by  ; 
Where  judges  and  laws  against  justice  rebel, 
And  truth  lies  asleep  in  a  fathomless  well !  — 
But  just  as  he  vowed  that,  happen  what  might, 
He  would  henceforth  and  evermore  "  pull  for  the  right," 
"  Two  pulls  for  the  left  "  brought  him  close  to  his  door ; 
'T  was  an  omnibus  dream  —  only  this  —  nothing  more. 


THE  OMEN  MOON. 

0, 1  'YE  seen  the  fair  new  moon,  mother ! 

Her  crescent  crowns  the  night, 
And  from  its  silver  horns,  mother, 
Streams  forth  a  gentle  light ; 
0,  fair  its  beam, 
On  wood  and  stream, 
Putting  all  gloom  to  flight ; 
And  I  saw  her  over  my  right,  mother, 
I  saw  her  over  my  right. 

On  the  bridge  by  the  maple  path,  mother, 

I  stood  and  looked  below, 
And  the  rippling  waves  in  the  light,  mother, 
Shone  bright  with  its  silvery  glow ; 
The  song  of  a  bird 
The  calm  air  stirred 
Of  the  tranquil  summer  night ; 
And  the  moon  shone  over  my  right,  mother, 
And  the  moon  shone  ofbr  my  right. 

And  I  thought  of  the  land  of  the  blest,  mother, 

Where  the  holy  spirits  dwell, 
And  their  smiles  seemed  wove  with  the  light,  mother, 

Of  the  moonbeams,  where  they  fell, 


60  THE   OMEN   MOON. 

And  my  spirit  turned 
Where  the  fair  stars  burned 

With  a  new  and  supreme  delight, 
As  the  moon  shone  over  my  right,  mother, 

As  the  moon  shone  over  my  right. 

And  then  I  wished  my  wish,  mother, 

Beneath  the  moon's  fair  beams  ; 
Strange,  strange  that  thoughts  of  earth,  mother, 
Should  mix  with  our  heavenly  dreams  ! 
I  'm  not  to  blame, 
I  could  but  name 
My  love  in  my  prayer  to-night, 
When  the  moon  shone  over  my  right,  mother, 
When  the  moon  shone  over  my  right. 

I  heard  a  sigh  by  my  side,  mother, 
As  I  gazed  on  the  wave  below,' 
And  my  heart  beat  strangely  fast,  mother, 
But  not  with  fear,  —  0,  no  ! 
I  forgot  to  say 
John  came  that  way, 
By  chance,  though,  doubtless,  quite, 
And  the  moon  shone  over  our  right,  mother, 
And  the  moon  shone  over  our  right. 


THE   LAUGHING   BAN. 

0,  LAUGHTER  is  sweet  from  the  lips  of  youth, 
When  it  gushes  forth  loud  and  clear,  — 

So  fraught  with  melody  and  truth, 
So  full  of  the  heart's  own  cheer  ! 

And  rich  is  the  laugh  of  the  jocund  one, 

Whom  a  happy  soul  pervades ; 
'T  is  nature's  voice,  as  when  streams  rejoice 

Through  the  flowery  summer  glades. 

For  the  heart  is  a  stream,  on  whose  crystal  tide 

Its  feelings  and  passions  throng ; 
Some  darkling  and  low  in  mystery  glide, 

Some  laughingly  move  along. 

0,  could  you  have  seen  fair  Annabel  Green, 

With  her  eyes  so  bright  and  blue, 
And  her  hair  of  gold  that  gleaming  rolled 

O'er  her  neck  of  Parian  hue  ! 

Her  laugh  was  as  gay  as  the  song  of  birds 

In  the  leafy  bowers  of  spring, 
And  her  breath  was  sweet  as  the  odors  that  meet 

Where  the  gales  their  fragrance  fling. 


62  THE  LAUGHING  BAN. 

O,  why  did  she  laugh  at  the  weirdly  wife, 

At  the  tale  of  her  grievous  woe  ? 
The  stamp  of  her  crime,  in  death  and  in  life, 

Will  mark  her  steps  below. 

'T  was  a  terrible  sin,  and  the  red  curse  fell 

Like  a  blight  upon  her  heart ! 
It  haunted  her  sleep  with  a  sorrow  deep, 

And  with  day  would  not  depart. 

Laugh !  ay,  laugh  when  the  morning  sun 

Unbars  the  gates  of  day, 
And  laugh  when  the  streams  of  its  golden  beams 

In  the  bright  west  fade  away ; 

And  laugh  when  the  gloom  of  midnight  sits 

Like  a  nightmare  on  your  breast, 
And  laugh  when  the  shadow  of  sorrow  flits 

O'er  your  soul  in  its  sad  unrest ; 

And  laugh  at  another's  pain  and  strife, 

And  the  misery  that  distils 
From  the  leaves  of  the  Upas  of  human  life, 

And  its  branches  of  deadly  ills ! 

The  years  flew  by,  and,  asleep  or  awake, 

Was  her  ill-timed  laughter  heard, 
When  her  heart  with  the  tremor  of  fear  did  shake, 

And  when  with  grief  't  was  stirred. 


THE  LAUGHING  BAN.  63 

And  she  died  with  a^  laugh  upon  her  lips, 

That  laugh  so  wild  and  shrill, 
And  her  eyes  were  closed  in  the  drear  eclipse, 

But  the  laugh  remained  there  still. 

This  moral  clearly  my  tale  imparts :  — 
You  may  laugh  in  your  innocent  glee, 

But  banish  scorn  from  your  blithesome  hearts, 
Nor  mock  at  misery ; 

Lest  the  fate  we  have  seen  of  Annabel  Green 
May  likewise  hap  to  thee. 


THE   JOUR.    PRINTER'S   MONUMENT. 

A  StYSTEBT. 

POOE  Pi,  the  printer,  was  woesome  sick, 

And  he  lay  on  his  bed  to  die  ; 
His  eye  was  glazed,  and  his  breath  was  thick, 
And  Death  with  his  dart  gave  Pi  a  stick, 
Life's  frail  bucket  he  over  did  kick, 

And  a  senseless  heap  lay  Pi. 

'T  was  sad  to  see  his  form  thus  laid, 

So  ghastly  and  so  stark  ; 
Care  on  his  brow  deep  lines  had  made, 
And  if  ever  the  rays  of  joy  there  played, 
'T  was  but  for  a  moment,  and  then  to  fade, 

Like  meteors  'mid  the  dark. 

His  body  was  placed  in  a  humble  case, 

And  borne  from  his  garret  dim ; 
And  sighs  were  heaved  that  in  Death's  embrace 
Thus  had  determined  his  hard-run  race  ; 
Friends  prayed  for  his  soul  as  they  looked  on  his  face ; 

What  were  tears  or  prayers  to  him  ? 

They  left  him  to  moulder  beneath  the  sod, 

And  return  to  primal  dust ; 
They  knew  he  'd  long  felt  affliction's  rod,  — 


THE  JOUR.  PRINTER'S  MONUMENT.  65 

Small  comfort  was  there  in  the  path  he  had  trod, 
And  they  felt  that  while  he  mixed  with  the  clod 
His  spirit  was  with  the  just. 

Now  Time  passed  on,  —  long  years  rolled  by, 

And  Memory  'waked  the  past ; 
Men  sought  the  grave  of  the  printer  Pi, 
A  pillar  to  rear,  both  broad  and  high, 
As  if  to  atone  for  old  ill  to  try, 

And  justice  do  at  last. 

'T  was  no  marble  column  that  upward  rose 

To  tower  amid  the  clouds ; 
Nor  granite  shaft  to  record  his  woes, 
Of  his  hopes  all  crushed  and  his  heart  all  froze ;  — 
These  were  not  what  the  builders  chose, 

To  draw  admiring  crowds. 

But  they  dragged  from  its  nook  the  ancient  press 

That  of^yore  had  caused  him  pain  — 
The  tongue  of  thought  which,  through  his  distress, 
Had  spoken  in  tones  the  world  to  bless  — 
The  dust  of  years  on  its  frame  did  rest, 

And  many  a  time-worn  stain. 

They  made  it  their  chiefest  corner-stone, 

Then  piled  the  mass  amain  ; 
The  cross-legged  bank  'neath  a  heap  did  groan, 
The  ink-balls  and  the  trough  were  thrown, 
The  ink-block,  cobweb  over-grown, 

The  mallet  and  the  plane. 
5 


66  THE  JOUR.  PRINTER'S  MONUMENT. 

And  hard  old  cases,  in  grim  array, 

And  chases  thick  with  rust, 
And  quoin-drawers  long  since  thrown  away, 
And  relics  snatched  from  a  doomed  decay, 
Were  I i ought  again  to  the  light  of  day, 

All  clothed  in  ancient  dust. 

Then  they  gathered  the  toil  and  the  mental  pain 

Which  had  marked  his  earthly  race  ; 
And  they  gathered  the  hours  to  him  all  vain, 
Where  others  had  reaped  the  accruing  gain, 
And  the  bitter  thoughts  which  his  soul  did  stain, 
And  the  sweat  of  his  care-worn  face. 

A  crowning  piece  for  the  pile  they  sought, 

And  long  they  sought  in  vain ; 
Till  a  gleam  of  joy  or  two  they  brought, 
And  Saturday  nights  that  with  rest  were  fraught, 
And  moments  of  calm  and  pleasant  thought, 

When  "  fat "  he  'd  chanced  to  gain.       « 

Then  Wisdom's  light  was  shed  on  the  scene, 

And  a  goodly  sight  was  there ; 
The  incongruous  mass  had  changed  its  mien, 
And,  glowing  bright  in  celestial  sheen, 
Its  summit  resting  the  stars  between, 

Rose  the  pile  through  the  upper  air. 

And  Earth  grew  glad  amid  the  light 

Diffusive  in  its  ray ; 
And  darkened  spots  came  grandly  bright, 


THE  JOUR.  PRINTER'S  MONUMENT.  67 

With  new-found  radiance  bedight,  — 
As  sunshine  followeth  the  night,  — 
And  smiles  upon  the  day. 

Effulgently  beamed  its  glories  forth; 

And  then  from  far  and  nigh 
Came  sages,  as  erst  when  T^uth  had  birth, 
The  wise  and  mighty  children  of  earth, 
And  laid  their  tribute  of  mind  to  worth 

On  the  urn  of  the  printer  Pi. 

And  then  this  riddle  was  plainly  read  : 

That  he  lives  not  in  vain 
Who  wrestles  with  woe  to  heart  and  head, 
Till  the  breath  is  stilled  and  sense  is  dead, 
And  stretches  his  form  on  a  martyr's  bed  : 

For  a  darkened  world  shall  gain. 


THE   WIDOW   %F   NODDLE'S   ISLAND. 
AX  nriTATiojr. 

A  FOG  was  coming  swiftly  from  the  ocean, 

Just  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  through  the  window-panes,  with  strange  emotion, 

Looked  the  fair  Widow  May. 

She  looked  out  on  the  river  and  Deer  Island, 

And  the  white  walls  of  Lynn  ; 
Plainly  she  saw,  from  glance  at  sea  and  highland, 

A  storm  was  setting  in. 

Charlestown  and  Chelsea,  Hull,  Nahant  and  Boston, 

Were  all  seen  dim  and  gray, 
Fading  'mid  sea-clouds  they  would  soon  be  lost  in, 

When  daylight  died  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  blankets  sombre, 

Those  clouds  throughout  the  night 
Frightened  the  lonely  Widow  from  her  slumber, 
^   And  made  her  cheek  turn  white. 


THE  WIDOW   OF   NODDLE'S   ISLAND.  69 

And  now  they  poured  at  dawn  their  deep  libations, 

On  every  town  and  hill ; 
Cloud  answering  cloud,  with  washy  salutations, 

As  mortals  often  will. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  drowning  field  and  meadow, 

They  roar  for  many  a  mile, 
As  if  to  waken  from  her  sleep  the  Widow 

Of  Noddle's  famous  Isle. 

Her  shall  no  thunder  from  the  cloud's  dark  quiver, 

No  rain-drops  on  the  wall, 
No  morning  shout  from  boatmen  on  the  river, 

Awaken  with  their  call ! 

Because,  there  watching,  with  an  eye  to  leeward, 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Stands  the  lone  Widow  gazing  wildly  seaward, 

Still  wakeful  on  her  post. 

For  in  the  night  was  one,  exposed  to  peril, 

In  sombre  darkness  hid, 
Loved  by  the  Widow  fair,  and  surnamed  Merrill, 

And  captain  of  the  Squid. 

He  sailed  upon  the  wild,  tempestuous  billow, 

The  dark  and  silent  deep, 
And  at  the  thought  sleep  fled  the  Widow's  pillow, 

Too  sorrowful  for  sleep. 


70  THE  WIDOW  OP  NODDLE'S  ISLAND. 

The  wind  refrained  not  from  its  wild  outpouring, 

But  smote  the  widow  sore ; 
Ah,  what  a  blow  !  that  went  through  Boston  roaring, 

And  whitened  all  the  shore. 

But  the  next  day  came  up  a  stiff  nor'wester, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead ; 
The  Squid  returned,  and,  as  the  captain  pressed  her, 

The  widow's  terror  fled. 


THE  SPRING   ON  THE  SHORE.* 

i 

UPGUSHING  through  the  pebbly  strand, 
Here  flows  a  fairy  crystal  stream ; 

Its  waters,  sparkling  o'er  the  sand, 
Like  threads  of  liquid  silver  seem. 

The  music  of  its  note  is  sweet, 

As  singingly  it  speeds  along, 
The  river's  stormy  lord  to  meet, 

And  soothe  his  harshness  with  a  song. 

The  cattle  from  the  grassy  lea 

Come  gratefully  its  wealth  to  drink, 

And  birds  of  land  and  birds  of  sea 
Meet  peacefully  beside  its  brink. 

The  sunbeam  on  the  rippling  tide 

Smiles  gayly  down  from  heavenly  height, 

To  see  its  glories  magnified 

In  myriad  beams  of  golden  light. 

And  men,  with  foreheads  red  and  warm, 
Bow  down  before  the  crystal  shrine ; 

And  girlhood  bends  her  graceful  form, 
And  shadowy  lips  with  real  join. 

*  Upon  the  shore  of  the  Piscataqua,  in  Newington,  N.  H.,  is  a 
spring  of  pure  water,  over  which  the  salt  river  flows  at  every  high 
tide.  It  was  suggestive  of  the  poem. 


72  THE   SPUING    OX   THE   SHORE. 

But  see  the  rapid  river  rise ! 

Fast,  fast  it  gains  upon  the  shore,  — 
A  moment,  and  the  spot  we  prize 

The  angry  billow  closes  o'er. 

But  gushing  still,  though  hid  from  view, 
The  little  rill  yet  pours  its  tide, 

As  constantly,  as  pure  and  true, 
As  when  by  sunlight  glorified  ! 

And  when  the  rolling  river  wanes, 
And  cravenly  deserts  the  shore, 

The  rivulet  new  strength  obtains, 
And  sings  and  sparkles  as  before. 

And  this  the  lesson  it  may  teach : 

That  thus  Truth's  crystal  streamlets  rise, 

And  trickle  on  o'er  Time's  dark  beach, 
To  bless  the  heart  and  glad  the  eyes. 

And  that,  though  Error's  tide  o'erflow 
The  gentle  stream,  and  hide  its  power, 

Its  silvery  wave  again  will  glow, 

And  Truth's  fair  spirit  rule  the  hour. 


MRS.  PARTINGTON   AT  TEA. 

GOOD  Mistress  P. 
Sat  sipping  her  tea, 
Sipping  it,  sipping  it,  Isaac  and  she ; 

What  though  the  wind  blew  fiercely  around, 
And  the  rain  on  the  pane  gave  a  comfortless  sound  ? 
Little  cared  she, 
Kind  Mistress  P., 
As  Isaac  and  she  sat  sipping  their  tea. 

And  in  memory 
What  sights  did  she  see, 
As  Isaac  and  she  sat  sipping  their  tea ! 
She  turned  her  gaze  to  the  opposite  wall, 
Where  hung  the  profile  of  Corporal  Paul, 
And  fancies  free, 
To  Mistress  P., 
Arose  in  her  mind  like  the  steam  of  the  tea. 

And  little  saw  she, 
Blind  Mistress  P., 
As  silently  she  sat  sipping  her  tea, — 


74  MRS.  PARTINGTON   AT   TEA. 

With  her  eyes  on  the  wall  and  her  mind  away,  — 
That  Isaac  was  taking  the  time  to  play : 

And  wicked  was  he 

To  Mistress  P., 
As  dreamily  she  sat  sipping  her  tea. 

For  Isaac  he, 
In  diablerie, 
Emptied  her  rappee  into  her  tea  ; 

And  the  old  dame  tasted  and  tasted  on, 
Till  she  thought,  good  soul,  that  her  taste  was  gone, 
For  the  souchong  tea 
And  the  strong  rappee 
Sorely  puzzled  the  palate  of  Mistress  P. 

MORAL. 

This  moral,  you  see, 
Is  drawn  from  the  tea 
That  Isaac  had  ruined  for  Mistress  P. : 
Forever  will  mix  in  the  cup  of  our  joy 
The  dark  rappee  of  sorrow's  alloy, 
And  none  are  free, 
Any  more  than  she, 
From  annoying  alloys  that  mix  with  their  tea. 


THE  SENSITIVE  MAN  was  at  a  concert  one  night,  and  in  the  seat 
directly  before  him  was  a  knit  jacket,  of  most  exquisite  mould, 
encircling  a  form  of  faultless  symmetry.  Above  the  jacket  arose  a 
charming  neck,  about  which  played,  in  golden  dalliance,  a  wave  of 
brilliant  curls.  His  heart  was  a-glow  at  once.  He  saw  nothing 
but  the  jacket  and  curls,  for  the  face  was  turned  away  ;  and,  taking 
out  his  pencil,  he  wrote  a  burning  sonnet  to  the  "  Jacket  of  Blue  " 
on  the  crown  of  his  hat.  The  sonnet  burned  up  by  self-combustion ; 
but  the  recollection  of  the  feeling  that  occasioned  it  yet  remains, 
and  the  theme  of  his  ardent  soul  is  now 

THE   JACKET   OF   BLUE. 

'T  WAS  a  neat  little,  sweet  little  jacket  of  blue, 

With  trimming  of  fur  all  encompassed  around  it, 
And  fastened  with  ribbons  of  loveliest  hue, 

Which  girdled  the  beautiful  apex  that  crowned  it. 
I  gazed  on  the  vesture  like  one  in  a  dream, 

My  fancy  took  wing  as  I  pondered  upon  it, 
And  quicker  than  thought  the  delectable  theme 

Had  taken  the  form  of  a  heavenly  sonnet. 

That  sonnet !  't  was  rapture's  most  exquisite  tone, 

Poured  forth  from  a  soul  by  ecstasy  haunted ; 
Alas !  with  its  theme  has  the  melody  flown, 

And  fancy  has  wakened,  but  not  disenchanted ; 
In  pleasure's  gay  walks  are  my  eyes  still  inclined 

To  watch  for  that  delicate  jacket's  appearing, 
And  the  beautiful  neck,  with  ringlets  entwined, 

Like  a  lily  in  sprin*  from  a  blue  lake  uprearing. 


76  THE   JACKET   OF   BLUE. 

'T  was  a  neat  little,  sweet  little  jacket  of  blue, 

With  trimming  of  fur  all  encompassed  around  it, 
And  fastened  with  ribbons  of  loveliest  hue, 

Which  girdled  the  lily-white  beauty  that  crowned  it. 
I  owned  to  its  thrall,  and  I  still  feel  its  charm,  — 

'T  will  haunt  me,  I  fear,  to  life's  lattermost  minute  ; 
I  feel  well  assured  —  heaven  shield  me  from  harm  !  — 

That  jacket  of  blue  had  the  d — ickens  within  it. 


MRS.  PARTINGTON'S   FAREWELL, 

WHEN   SHE   LEFT   HER  POST.' 

BY  the  open  door  she  stood, 

And  a  drop  stood  in  her  eye,  — 
A  thousand  thronging  memories 

Restrained  the  sad  good-by ; 
'T  was  sundering  the  golden  chain 

That  long  had  bound  her  here, 
And  she  gave  to  olden  happiness 

The  tribute  of  a  tear. 

At  last  the  word  was  uttered, 

The  farewell  word  was  spoke  ; 
Her  eyes  were  dim  with  sorrow,  part, 

And  part  with  coffee  smoke  ; 
She  waved  her  hand  and  handkerchief, 

A  flush  was  on  her  brow, 
And  tremulously  murmured  she, 

"  I  '11  make  my  essex  now !  " 

Then  closed  the  door  behind  her, 

She  pensive  moved  and  slow  ; 
She  lingered  long  upon  the  stairs,  •— 

Ah,  loth  was  she  to  go  ! 
But  her  destiny  was  written, 

She  could  bide  no  longer  here, 
And  Mrs.  Partington  did  weep 

Full  many  a  bitter  tear ! 


WITHERED    GRASS. 

LIKE  the  still  surface  of  the  little  lake, 
The  heart  is  ruffled  by  the  merest  breath ; 

A  word,  a  look,  a  flower,  will  oft  awake 

A  crowd  of  memories  from  their  seeming  death. 

And  late  a  simple  tuft  of  faded  grass 

Did  rustle  o'er  my  heart-strings  with  a  tone 

Of  old  affection  which  had  slept,  alas ! 

Since  the  blest  object  of  that  love  had  flown. 

My  mind  recalled  therein  the  image  fair 

Of  her  who  bound  the  flowers  in  all  their  pride, 

But  who,  more  frail  than  summer  blossoms  are, 
Bowed  her  fair  head,  and  in  her  spring-time  died. 

I  lived  again  the  love-illumined  hours, 

When  sweet  communion  cast  around  its  spell, 

Beneath  the  arches  of  those  fragrant  bowers, 
Adorned  with  roses  that  she  loved  so  well. 

Anew  her  smile  made  bright  the  hastening  day,  — 
How  fleet  it  flew  with  Annie  by  my  side !  — 

Her  eye  beamed  on  me  with  its  olden  ray, 

Her  cheek  still  blushed  in  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 


WITHERED   GRASS.  79 

Her  voice  once  more  its  tender  music  poured 

Upon  my  eager,  all-attentive  ear, 
And  every  syllable,  of  old  adored, 

My  listening  spirit  bowed  itself  to  hear. 

Her  little  hand  sought  mine,  in  beauteous  trust ; 

Her  rounded  cheek  was  pressed  against  my  own ; 
Alas !  remembrance  turns  the  hand  to  dust, 

The  rounded  cheek  in  memory  lives  alone ;  — 

Until  the  veil  dividing  us  is  riven, 

When,  roaming  on  that  bliss-environed  plain, 

To  our  enfranchised  spirits  it  is  given 
To  join  in  loved  companionship  again. 

E'en  though  an  angel's  crown  adorn  her  head, 
Though  bliss  ecstatic  be  around  her  cast, 

I  can  but  deem  the  love  once  on  me  shed 
Is  constant  still,  enduring  to  the  last. 


MEMORIES. 

SnfG  me  the  simple  ballad  strain 

That  pleased  my  heart  in  days  of  yore, 
When  earth  seemed  void  of  care  and  pain, 

And  all  was  bright  my  way  before,  — 
Whose  music,  like  the  dews  of  night 

That  cheer  the  heart  of  summer  flowers, 
Checked  youthful  passion's  fiery  might, 

And  gave  to  virtue  nobler  powers. 

Although  a  devious  sea  of  years 

Hath  rolled  its  griefs  and  toils  between,  - 
Although  the  present  scene  appears, 

(And  we  ourselves),  not  what  has  been,  - 
Although  the  wrinkled  brow  betrays 

The  deeply-written  trace  of  care, 
And  the  bright  hope  of  careless  days 

No  longer  finds  a  station  there,  — 
Sing  me  the  song  that  once  you  sung, 

While  I  sit  waiting  at  your  knee, 
The  tones  distilling  from  your  tongue 

Shall  set  my  care-bound  spirit  free  ! 
'T  will  wander  through  that  distant  past, 

And  revel  mid  those  scenes  again, 
Known  ere  its  sun  was  overcast 

By  aught  of  gloom  or  aught  of  pain ; 


MEMORIES.  81 

When  innocence  dwelt  in  the  bowers, 

All  consecrate  to  love  and  truth, 
When  life's  new  spring-light  cheered  the  hours 

That  made  the  calendar  of  youth. 

Let  others  love  the  mightier  strain, 

The  brilliant  gem  of  studied  art ; 
0,  let  me  hear  that  song  again 

Whose  melody  first  won  my  heart ' 
6 


OUR   ELLEN. 

ELLEN,  Ellen,  there 's  no  telling 
Half  our  love  for  thee,  dear  girl , 

Features  merry,  lips  like  cherry, 
Sunny  eye  and  glossy  curl. 

Ever  singing,  sweet  voice  ringing, 
Like  a  bird  or  like  a  bell, 

Never  weary,  ever  cheery, 
Ever  striving  to  excel. 

Late  or  early,  never  surly, 
Never  fretting,  seldom  sad, 

Thy  appearing,  always  cheering, 
Everybody  making  glad. 

Youth  possessing,  and  each  blessing 
Which  the  genial  age  imparts, 

Still  bewitching  hall  or  kitchen, 
Ever  reigning  queen  of  hearts. 

Always  cheery,  never  dreary 
From  the  morn  till  setting  sun, 

Chicken  feeding,  playing,  reading, 
Ever  seasoning  work  with  fun. 


OUR   ELLEN.  83 

Cunning  talker,  agile  walker, 

Bounding  onward  like  a  deer, 
Blithesome  moving,  fair  flowers  loving, 

That  brighter  seem  when  thou  art  near. 

Features  merry,  lips  like  cherry, 

Laughing  eye  and  sunny  curl,  — 
Ah,  dear  Ellen,  there 's  no  telling 

Half  our  love  for  thee,  dear  girl ! 


PHILANTHROPOS   AT   FAULT. 

ALL  pensive  walked  the  charcoalman 

His  charcoal  cart  beside, 
And  plaintive  was  the  tone  in  which 

His  merchandise  he  cried ; 

And  mournful  was  the  look  he  cast 

Anon  upon  the  ground, 
And  careless  was  the  gaze  he  turned 

Upon  the  people  round. 

A  gloom  was  resting  on  his  brow, 

It  trouble  dire  bespoke ; 
Adding  a  new  and  darker  hue 

To  clouds  of  charcoal  smoke. 

While  all  the  world  around  was  bright, 

And  other  hearts  were  glad, 
Methought  it  was  he  walked  alone 

Of  all  the  people  sad. 

"  Why  sigh'st  thou  now,  sad  charcoalman  ? 

Why  falls  that  bitter  tear  ? 
Is  there  no  balm  to  ease  thy  grief  ? 

No  soothing  power  near  ?  " 


PHILANTHROPOS  AT  FAULT.  85 

Then  calmly  spoke  the  charcoalman, 

"  I  have  n't  any  woes, 
And  that  'ere  tear  was  sweat  you  saw 

A  running  down  my  nose ; 

"  And  I  was  thinking,  very  deep, 

That  I  was  dry  as  sin, 
And  wondering  how  I  'd  raise  a  drink 

And  had  n't  got  the  tin." 


DOMESTIC   JEWELS. 

"  These  are  my  jewels,"  said  the  Roman  dame, 
And  laid  her  hand  upon  her  children's  tresses ; 

JEWELS  !  each  mother's  heart  accepts  the  name,  — 
How  priceless  held  her  beaming  eye  expresses. 

The  jewels  of  the  queenly  dame  of  Rome 
Are  not  confined  to  ancient  musty  story, 

But  gems  as  bright  in  many  a  quiet  home 
Shed  o'er  its  happiness  a  radiant  glory. 

There  's  music  in  the  infant's  noisy  glee, 
To  ears  attuned  the  songs  of  home  to  hear ; 

And  childish  laughter,  jubilant  and  free, 

Makes  glad  the  household's  buoyant  atmosphere. 

King  David,  called  a  man  of  God's  own  heart,  — 
And  may  his  pious  memory  live  forever  ! — 

Pronounced  him  blest  whose  lot  it  was  and  part 
To  have  of  children  a  full,  bounteous  quiver. 

Amen  !  cry  all  true  souls  with  ardent  zest ; 

And  who  that  knows  a  thing  will  ever  doubt  them  ? 
For,  though  but  "  troubles  "  they  are  oft  confessed, 

Still  home  is  very  drear  and  sad  without  them. 


THE   LITTLE   RIVULET. 

I  KNOW  a  gentle  rill 
That  springs  beside  a  hill, 

In  the  shade 

Of  the  birch's  emerald  screen, 
And  the  alder's  cheerful  green, 
And  the  sweet  fern  in  between, 
Where  the  sun's  bright  glow,  I  ween, 

Ne'er  hath  strayed. 

Down  through  the  meadow  wide, 
Down  by  the  deep  wood-side* 
Cheerfully  its  crystal  tide 

Moves  along ; 

And  the  cattle  on  its  brink, 
As  they  bow  their  heads  to  drink, 
Seem  to  linger  there  and  think 

On  its  song. 

That  song,  —  how  sweet  its  notes, 
As  on  the  air  it  floats  ! 

And  the  birds,  f 

On  the  willow  spray  that 's  near, 
Oft  turn  a  raptured  ear, 
And  stoop  the  bliss  to  hear 

Of  its  words. 


88  THE  LITTLE  KIVULET. 

The  trees  their  branches  wave, 
As  their  roots  the  waters  lave ; 

And  the  grass 
Receives  a  brighter  hue, 
And  the  flowers  of  gold  and  blue 
Their  brilliancy  renew, 

As  they  pass. 

And  on  its  placid  breast 
The  lilies  fondly  rest, 
As  if  supremely  blest 

With  content ; 
And  the  sedges  by  its  side 
Look  down  upon  its  tide, 
With  love  and  trust  and  pride 

Sweetly  blent. 

And  the  living  eddies  twirl, 
And  their  graceful  ripples  curl, 
Like  the  tresses  of  a  girl, 

And  the  sky 

Sends  troops  of  gorgeous  clouds 
To  gaze  on  it  in  crowds, 

From  on  high. 

Like  the  joyous  tide  of  youth, 
Like  its  virtue,  like  its  truth, 
Like  its  guilelessness  and  ruth, 
Sweetly  gay, 


THE   LITTLE   RIVULET.  89 

Blessing  all  it  glides  among, 
Cooling  fevered  brow  and  tongue, 
Ever  marked  with  smile  and  song, 
On  its  way. 

And  the  gentle  flow  of  song 
Like  its  waters  mov.es  along, 
Busy  paths  of  men  among, 

And  its  word, 

Though  the  tempest  din  of  life 
Drown  it,  mayhap,  in  its  strife, 
Still  its  voice,  with  heaven  rife, 

Shall  be  heard. 


A  VALENTINE. 

WIFE  of  mine  —  wife  of  mine  — 

Be  thou  still  my  Valentine ; 

Still,  as  when  in  Love's  young  day 

We  laughed  the  joyous  hours  away  ; 

Still,  as  when  on  Life's  broad  stream 

We  launched  our  bark  by  Hope's  bright  beam ; 

Now,  as  then,  my  heart  is  thine,  — 

Thou  art  still  my  Valentine. 

Wife  of  mine  —  wife  of  mine  — 
Thou  art  still  my  Valentine ; 
Though  poor  in  purse,  yet  light  in  heart, 
With  sweet  content  we  '11  never  part ; 
No  bickering  strife  nor  jealous  word 
Shall  in  our  humble  courts  be  heard  ; 
The  day  long  and  the  night  be  mine, 
To  praise  thee  still,  my  Valentine. 

Wife  of  mine  —  wife  of  mine  — 

Evermore  my  Valentine ; 

True  happiness  will  always  rest 

Where  Truth  and  Love  have  built  their  nest, 


VALENTINES.  91 

Where  Virtue  ever  bright  appears, 
Undimmed,  unmarked  by  changing  years. 
Such  is  the  home  thou  'st  made  of  mine, 
My  old,  my  dearest  Valentine. 

Wife  of  mine  —  wife  of  mine  — 

Be  thou  still  my  Valentine  ; 

The  stream  is  broad,  the  tide  is  strong 

That  bears  us  on  its  breast  along 

Towards  the  shoreless,  boundless  sea, 

Of  a  blest  eternity ; 

My  hopes  of  bliss  round  thee  shall  twine, 

Eternally,  my  Valentine. 


NEW   HAMPSHIRE. 

WB1TTKN    AS    A    CALL    TO    THE    GATHERING     OF    THE    SONS    OF 
HAMPSHIRE,   IN   1852. 

HABK  !  't  is  New  Hampshire's  voice  we  hear, 
But  not  in  dread,  as  erst  it  spoke, 

When  trouble's  clouds  were  hovering  near, 
And  o'er  her  hills  in  terror  broke . 

When  the  fierce  savage  lit  the  flame 
With  hands  dyed  red  in  human  life, 

And  mortal  woe  made  loud  acclaim 
Amid  the  din  of  midnight  strife. 

Not  now  as  when,  with  wrong  oppressed, 
Her  heroes  buckled  on  the  sword, 

Bared  to  their  country's  foes  their  breast, 
And  in  its  cause  their  life-blood  poured. 

Not  now  as  when  her  battle  peal 
Gave  fierce  defiance  to  the  foe, 

And,  right-impelled,  the  gleaming  steel 
Smote  quick  and  strong  the  avenging  blow. 

Her  summons  ne'er  was  given  in  vain,  — 
An  answering  note  from  hill  and  glen 

Echoed  on  many  a  battle  plain, 
In  mighty  deeds  of  gallant  men. 


NEW   HAMPSHIRE. 

The  voice  we  hear  breathes  not  of  war, 
Nor  aught  of  terror  doth  impart ; 

It  tells  no  tale  delight  to  mar, 

Nor  thrills  with  anguished  doubt  the  heart. 

Like  music  notes  that  call  to  peace 

It  bids  us  to  her  courts  repair, 
For  one  brief  hour  to  find  release 

From  worldly  strife  and  turmoil  there. 

To  joy  in  memory  of  the  past, 
To  brush  away  the  dust  of  years, 

To  bring  back  scenes  too  fair  to  last, 
Oft  wakened  with  regretful  tears ; 

And  times  when  deeds  of  after  date 
Were  shadowed  in  each  boyish  plan, 

Revealing  in  the  child's  estate 
The  mighty  promise  of  the  man. 

Mother  !  we  hear  thy  kindly  voice,  — 
We  fling  discordant  feelings  by ; 

Brother  with  brother  shall  rejoice, 
And  at  thy  summons  gladly  fly. 

We  pledge  thee  fondly,  and  the  toast 
Each  breast  with  warm  emotion  fills: — 

"  The  good  old  state  we  love  the  most, 
Enthroned  upon  her  thousand  hills  ! " 


OPENING   OF   THE   LATE   MR.    JOHN 
SMITH'S   WILL. 

Or  the  evils  of  vagueness  in  specification,  which  the  "  writer " 
trusts  may  be  avoided  if  ever  a  donation  or  legacy  is  meditated 
for  him. 

Now  Mr.  Smith,  who  had  taken  his  leave, 

Was  a  prudentish  sort  of  a  man  ; 
He  always  said  to  prevent,  not  retrieve, 

Was  far  the  properest  plan  ; 
So,  to  hinder  heart-burning  and  jealous  hate 

And  contending  heirs  make  still, 
Before  he  surrendered  himself  to  fate 

He  prudently  framed  a  will. 
But  he  kept  it  shut  from  mortal  look, 

Nor  could  any  define  its  tone ; 
To  the  favored  to-be  'twas  a  close-sealed  book, 

As  well  as  the  destined-to-none. 
So  hope  ran  strong  and  hope  ran  high 

In  every  degree  of  kin  ; 
For  virtues  of  Smith  was  breathed  many  a  sigh, 

But  smiles  were  reserved  for  his  tin. 

Nor  wife  nor  child 

On  Smith  had  e'er  smiled, 

To  inherit  the  money  for  which  he  had  toiled ; 


JOHN  SMITH'S  WILL.  95 

And  he  'd  no  nearer  kin  than  uncles  or  cousins, 

But  these  he  had  in  numberless  dozens. 

Now  cold  was  his  clay, 

And  appointed  the  day 

When  his  will  was  to  open  in  legal  way ; 

And  the  summons  was  put  in  the  "  Post,"  and  all 

Of  the  "  next  of  kin  "  were  invited  to  call 

To  see  what  share  to  their  lot  would  fall ; 

And  every  heir 

Had  assembled  there 

From  sea  and  land,  and  the  Lord  knows  where : 

There  was  Smith  from  the  plain, 
And  Smith  from  the  still, 

And  Smith  from  the  main, 
And  Smith  from  the  mill, 

And  Smith  from  the  mountain, 
And  Smith  from  the  mart, 

And  Smith  from  the  fountain, 

And  Smith  from  the  cart ; 
From  the  farthest  off  to  the  very  near, 
The  Smiths  all  came  the  will  to  hear. 

And  they  soberly  sat 

In  neighborly  chat, 

Talking  all  about  this  and  that, 

While  the  clock  near  the  door 

Was  watched  more  and  more 

As  the  minute-hand  neared  the  hour  of  four — 

The  hour  set  when  the  opening  seal 

Their  joy  or  their  chagrin  would  reveal. 


96  JOHN  SMITH'S  WILL. 

"  Watch  a  pot  and  't  will  never  boil," 

Hasten  time  —  't  is  an  up-hill  toil ; 

Watch  a  clock  for  the  hour  to  go, 

'T  is  the  weariest  work  a  man  can  know ; 

And  thus  as  they  watched  their  patience  waned, 

Though  not  a  voice  of  the  mass  complained, 

For  they  thought  it  would  n't  be  prudent  to  show 

That  they  were  aught  anxious  their  doom  to  know. 

FOUR  struck  at  last,  and,  in  eager  array, 

They  gathered  around  an  old  man  gray, 

Who  straightway  out  from  its  iron  nook 

Mr.  Smith's  very  "  last  will "  then  took, 

Nicely  with  black  tape  strongly  tied, 

With  a  huge  black  seal  on  either  side. 

The  click  of  the  shears,  as  the  threads  did  part, 

Went  with  a  thrill  to  each  waiting  heart, 

And  then  with  anxious  ear  they  hung 

Upon  every  word  from  that  old  man's  tongue. 

His  "  soundness  of  mind  " 
And  his  creed  were  defined, 
And  then  came  the  names  to  whom  he  was  kind  ; 
A  cane  to  this, 

And  a  box  to  that ; 
To  one  his  dog, 

Another  his  cat ; 
To  this  his  buckles, 
To  this  his  hat ; 


JOHN  SMITH'S  WILL.  97 

Till,  through  the  long  list  of  legacies  run, 
The  name  of  the  heir  was  lighted  upon ; 
When,  in  tones  like  the  tones  of  a  bell, 
These  were  the  words  from  his  will  that  fell :  — 

"  And  further,  I,  John, 

Have  fixed  upon, 

To  fill  my  place  upon  earth  when  I  'm  gone, 

John  Smith  the  tenth,  to  be  my  heir, 

My  house  to  maintain  and  my  honors  to  bear." 

Now,  here  was  a  stew 

To  know  what  to  do, 

Or  who  the  fortune  had  fallen  to ; 

They  could  n't  tell,  were  they  to  be  shot, 

For  fifteen  Johns  were  then  on  the  spot ; 

And  which  was  the  tenth  with  the  prefix  "  John  " 

They  were  sadly  at  loss  to  fix  upon. 

Then  they  argued  the  matter  early  and  late, 

But  doubting  grew  with  the  growing  debate. 

And  law-suits  gathered,  and  fees  flew  free, 
And  juries  tried  it  and  could  n't  agree, 
And  fortunes  were  spent,  till  hope  was  gone, 
In  finding  who  was  the  favored  John ! 
But  they  found  instead  that  it  would  n't  pay, 
And  so  in  court  they  allowed  it  to  lay 
In  the  dust  and  rust  of  years  piled  away. 

A  century  is  it  since  Mr.  Smith  died, 
And  his  family  name  is  scattered  wide, 

7 


98  JOHN  SMITH'S  WILL. 

And  towns  have  arisen  upon  his  broad  land, 

Prosperity  beaming  on  every  hand ; 

A  factory  hums  o'er  his  old  hearth-stone, 

But  John  Smith  the  tenth  one  was  never  known, 

And  John  Smith's  will  will  in  chancery  be, 

Till  Time  is  lost  in  Eternity's  sea. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

A  BENEVOLENT  man  was  Absalom  Bess,  — 
At  each  and  every  tale  of  distress 

He  blazed  right  up  like  a  rocket ; 
He  felt  for  all  who  'neath  poverty's  smart 
Were  doomed  to  bear  life's  roughest  part,  — 
He  felt  for  them  in  his  inmost  heart, 

But  never  felt  in  his  pocket. 

He  did  n't  know  rightly  what  was  meant 

By  the  Bible's  promised  four  hundred  per  cent. 

For  charity's  donation ; 
But  he  acted  as  if  he  thought  railroad  stocks, 
And  bonds  secure  beneath  earthly  locks, 
Were  better,  with  pockets  brim  full  of  rocks, 

Than  heavenly  speculation. 

Yet  all  said  he  was  an  excellent  man  ; 

For  the  poor  he  'd  preach,  for  the  poor  he  'd  plan,- 

To  better  them  he  was  willing ; 
But  the  oldest  one  who  had  heard  him  pray, 
And  preach  for  the  poor  in  a  pitiful  way, 
Could  n't  remember,  exactly,  to  say 

He  had  ever  given  a  shilling. 


100  BENEVOLENCE. 

0,  an  excellent  man  was  Absalom  Bess, 
And  the  world  threw  up  its  hands  to  bless, 

Whenever  his  name  was  mentioned ; 
But  he  died  one  day,  he  did,  and  0 ! 
He  went  right  down  to  the  shades  below. 
Where  all  are  bound,  I  fear,  to  go, 

Who  are  only  good  intentioned. 


MIDNIGHT  MUSIC. 

SILENCE  and  darkness  rested  o'er  th,e  town ; 

The  midnight  clock  had  tolled  its  solemn  numbers, 
When,  like  some  blissful  strain  from  heaven  sent  down, 

Broke  music  on  the  quiet  of  our  slumbers. 

Scarcely  yet  conscious,  did  the  drowsy  ear, 
Drinking  in  tones  seraphic  in  their  seeming, 

Convey  them  to  the  soul  entranced  to  hear, 
And  wove  them  in  the  fabric  of  its  dreaming. 

Forgotten  were  the  shadows  of  the  night, 

And  music  shed  a  glory  o'er  the  hour, 
And  sombre  darkness  grew  with  joy  bedight, 

Beneath  the  influence  of  its  magic  power. 

The  infant,  slumbering  by  its  mother's  breast, 

Waked  at  the  sound,  and  waking  smiled  a  blessing, 

Then  sank  again  serenely  to  its  rest, 

Its  tiny  hand  its  mother's  face  caressing. 

The  sickness-bowed,  to  whom  the  weary  time 
Lagged  slowly  on,  replete  with  bitter  sadness, 

Heard  the  sweet  note  that  filled  the  air,  sublime, 
And  felt  a  thrill  run  through  his  frame  of  gladness ; 


102  MIDNIGHT  MUSIC. 

The  fevered  pulse  a  healthy  tone  assumed, 

Harmonious  throbbing  to  the  music's  measure, 

And  the  glazed  eye  'came  transiently  illumed 
With  radiant  tokens  of  a  present  pleasure. 

The  widow's  tears  a  moment  ceased  to  flow ; 

She  hailed  the  blessed  melody  a  token 
Of  promise  to  her  hopes,  surcease  from  woe, 

A  note  from  spheres  where  unions  are  unbroken ; 

Bidding  her  heart  its  bitter  strife  to  cease, 
And  from  the  future  joyful  hope  to  borrow ; 

Quelling  the  raging  waves  of  grief  to  peace, 
And  soothing,  like  a  charm,  her  preying  sorrow. 

To  the  close-curtained  chamber  of  the  bride 
The  music  notes  on  airy  wings  ascended, 

Blessed  the  fond  pair  harmoniously  allied, 
And  with  their  aspirations  sweetly  blended. 

But,  all  too  soon  did  flee  that  'witching  strain,  — 
Fled  'mid  the  darkness,  thus  made  doubly  dreary ; 

And  the  still,  solemn  hours  rolled  on  again 
Their  sluggish  wave,  more  tedious  and  weary. 


A   SPRITELY   REVENGE. 

TENDER-hearted,  list  my  ditty  ! 

Hear  the  tale  of  love  I  tell, 
Tune  your  harps  to  notes  of  pity, . 

Let  your  sighs  responsive  swell. 

Polly  Ann  Matilda  Wiggins,  — 
0,  so  bright  and  fair  was  she !  — 

Lov6d  Hezekiah  Higgins, 
And  was  loved  as  well  by  he. 

Naught  but  love,  though,  were  they  rich  in,- 
Pewter  lent  their  lives  no  charm,  — 

Polly  toiled  in  a  kitchen, 
Hezekiah  tilled  a  farm. 

Now  awaked  the  golden  fever, 

Hezekiah  took  it  bad ; 
Polly  begged  he  would  n't  leave  her, 

But  the  money  must  be  had. 

Matrimony  waited  on  it — 

Neck  or  nothing  —  death  or  life  — 

And  he  vowed,  by  Polly's  bonnet, 
Fortune  gained,  he  'd  make  her  wife. 


104  A   SPEITELY  REVEXGE. 

Praying,  sighing,  kissing,  crying, 

Hezekiah  bade  good-by ; 
Polly  stood  her  tears  a-drying, 

With  her  apron  to  her  eye. 

Time  rolled  by,  and,  sad  and  lonely, 
Tender  Polly  wept  and  prayed, 

Got  one  little  letter  only, 

For  which  forty  cents  she  paid. 

Disconsolate  she  grew  and  badly, 

Vainly  sighing  for  relief; 
Then,  by  marrying  Jim  Hadley, 

Flung  herself  away,  in  grief. 

Hezekiah  at  the  "  diggins" 

Took  his  pick  and  worked  away, 

Dreamed  all  night  of  Polly  Wiggins, 
Thought  of  Polly  all  the  day. 

But  the  fever  went  and  took  him, 

As  it  many  has  beside, 
And  at  last  his  breath  forsook  him,  — 

So,  in  consequence,  he  died. 

And  his  spirit,  homeward  turning,  — 

Little  cost  to  it,  I  ween,  — 
Straightway  went  where,  love's  flame  burning, 

Polly  Wiggins  last  he  'd  seen. 


A   SPBITELT   REVENGE.  105 

Sad,  poor  ghost,  the  way  he  found  her ! 

Tears  his  ghostly  eyes  bedim ; 
Hadley  had  his  arm  around  her  — 

She  was  smiling  "  sweet "  on  Jim. 

Sorrow  then  gave  way  to  anger, 
Knocked  he  with  his  spectral  fist, 

Till  they  started  with  the  clangor, 
And  their  spirits  quaked  to  list. 

Knocked  he  then,  and  tipped  the  table ; 

Polly  ran  and  screamed  for  fear, 
Hadley  cut  as  fast  as  able, 

Those  unearthly  knocks  to  hear. 

Hadley  cut  and  Polly  wilted,  — 
Well  she  knew  the  sounds  of  dread ; 

And  the  ghost  of  him  she  jilted 
Was  most  fully  aveng-ed. 


THE    OLD    GREEN   COTTON. 

MY  old  green  cotton  "  umberel," 

Thou  'st  served  me  long  and  served  me  well, 

And  now  it  grieves  my  heart  to  tell 

That  thou  hast  left  me,  — 
That  thievish  hand,  with  purpose  fell, 

Of  thee  has  reft  me. 

Many  's  the  wet  and  dreary  day 
Thou  'st  braved  the  perils  of  the  way, 
When  lowering  tempests  made  essay 

To  soak  me  through  ; 
Thou  'st  dared  the  elemental  fray, 

As  good  as  new. 

Relentless  man  !  us  two  to  part,  — 
Was  there  no  softness  in  thy  heart, 
No  voice  from  out  its  depths  to  start, 

Thy  hand  to  stay  ? 
A  fiend  —  a  very  fiend  —  thou  art,  — 

'T  is  plain  as  day. 

But  may  no  comfort  on  thee  rest ! 
May  all  thy  airs,  that  should  be  west, 


THE   OLD   GREEN    COTTON.  107 

Blow  from  the  east  with  furious  zest, 

Thy  joy  to  ban  ! 
May  conscience  render  thee  unblest, 

A  wretched  man  ! 

Bound  thee  may  raging  rain-storms  roar, 
And  thunder  threaten  vengeance  sore ! 
May  that  old  umberel  no  more 

Protection  shed ! 
May  heaven  its  rain  relentless  pour 

Upon  thy  head ! 


OWED   TO   MONEY. 

OF  dollars  we  're  dreaming,  for  dollars  striving, 

The  only  object  of  worth  in  life ; 
The  mind  of  man,  for  his  greed  contriving, 

Dares  the  encounter  of  every  strife. 

The  silvery  stream  all  mankind  follow, 

Wherever  its  meanderings  run, 
Whose  course  is  lit  by  the  shining  dollar, 

Brighter  and  warmer  than  noonday  sun. 

Everywhere  is  this  dollar  gleaming, 
Everywhere  in  church  or  in  mart, 

And,  like  bright  rays  of  sunshine,  streaming 
Through  every  chink  of  the  human  heart. 

Mighty  the  power  in  money  that  dwelleth, — 
There  is  no  potentate  like  to  this ; 

Its  triumphs  the  history  of  ages  telleth, 
'T  is  the  key  to  every  earthly  bliss. 

It  opens  the  door  of  the  poet's  vision, 

It  smooths  the  path  of  the  good  and  brave, 

It  blunts  the  arrows  of  man's  derision, 
It  lightens  the  bonds  of  the  fettered  slave. 


OWED   TO   MONEY.  109 

Most  potent  soother  of  human  anguish, 

Everywhere  its  power  is  shown, 
Upraising  those  who  in  misery  languish, 

Easing  woes  that  the  heart  may  own. 

The  stings  of  love  are  alleviated, 

Broken  hearts  are  made  good  as  new, 

Old  cheerfulness  is  reinstated, 

The  true  made  better,  the  false  made  true. 

By  rail-car  crashing,  furious  dashing, 
Husband  's  struck  from  the  roll  of  life ; 

A  law-suit  follows  —  ten  thousand  dollars 
Consoles  the  inconsolable  wife. 

Character  'neath  the  tongue  of  scandal 
Black  is  made  as  the  shades  of  night ; 

Let  the  dollar  gleam,  like  a  mighty  candle, 
The  clouds  of  gloom  are  put  to  flight. 

Dollars !  dollars !  —  the  song  and  the  story, 
The  genius  of  man  has  e'er  sung  or  said ; 

Old  painters,  with  just  ideas  of  glory, 
Drew  golden  hoops  round  each  holy  head. 

0,  money,  money  !  all  men  adore  thee, 

An  altar  thou  hast  in  every  heart ; 
E'en  virtue's  power  must  fail  before  thee, 

In  robbing  woe  of  its  keenest  smart. 


110  OWED  TO  MONEY. 

Henceforward  money  be  my  endeavor ; 

Shut,  eyes  and  heart,  to  all  beside  ! 
Gold  to  my  progress  shall  prove  the  lever, 

And  silver  dollars  be  deified. 

Hurra  for  money  !  old  virtues  vanish,  — 
Friendship  and  love  that  once  controlled,  • 

Such  common  stars  the  world  must  banish, 
Whose  guiding  star  is  a  star  of  gold. 


A  VISION  OP  LIFE. 

AMID  the  troubled  fancies  of  my  dreaming, 
There  rose  a  vision  radiant  and  bright, 

A  world  of  sadness  from  its  gloom  redeeming, 
And  shedding  on  my  path  a  blessed  light. 

An  angel  boy  to  my  embrace  was  given, 

On  whom  my  heart  poured  lavishly  its  love : 

I  felt  he  was  a  blessing  sent  from  heaven  — 
An  emanation  from  the  home  above. 

In  his  dark  eyes  my  love  saw  its  reflection, 
His  voice  like  music  thrilled  me  with  its  tone, 

His  tender  arms,  in  confident  protection, 
Entwined  in  fond  conjunction  with  my  own. 

His  kiss  !  I  feel  it  on  my  lip  yet  glowing, 
As  when  his  cheek  unto  my  own  I  prest, 

And  my  full  heart,  with  tenderness  o'erflowing, 
Its  great,  its  boundless  happiness  confessed. 


112  A   VISION  OF   LIFE. 

And  day  by  day  I  marked  his  mind's  expansion, 
A  growing  love  I  saw  that  met  my  own ; 

I  thought  not  of  the  frailty  of  the  mansion 
Where  his  fair  spirit  had  set  up  its  throne. 

There  came  a  cloud  across  my  dream,  of  sorrow, 
And  pain,  and  misery,  and  dying  strife, 

And  effort  vain  from  human  aid  to  borrow, 
To  keep  alive  the  beam  we  know  as  life. 

The  heavenly  vision  fled,  and  gloom  succeeding 
Arrayed  my  soul  in  bitterness  of  woe  ; 

There  seemed  no  solace  for  my  heart  left  bleeding — 
No  voice  to  bid  my  tears  to  cease  their  flow. 

No  voice !  ah,  yes,  my  drooping  spirit  heareth 

A  word  of  joy,  as  if  an  angel  spake  : 
The  accent  glad  my  saddened  soul  now  cheereth, 

And  all  its  crushed  and  wounded  powers  awake. 

It  saith,  the  Mighty  One  who  gave  the  blessing 
Has  called  it,  pure  and  holy,  to  his  side ; 

Freed  it  from  woes  and  cares  of  earth,  oppressing, 
To  live  for  aye  in  joys  beatified ;  — 

That  this  dark  cloud,  called  death,  that  closed  my  vision, 
Is  but  the  mist  that  hides  from  me  the  sun ; 

And  living  yet,  in  atmosphere  elysian, 

My  boy  awaits  till  my  short  race  be  run ;  — 


A   VISION   OF   LIFE.  113 

That  love  burns  brighter,  in  that  realm  eternal, 
Enkindled  in  this  care-bound  world  of  ours  — 

Borrowing  new  strength,  'mid  those  pure  airs  supernal, 
To  bless  us  once  again  in  heavenly  bowers. 

Blest  is  our  faith,  the  mists  of  death  dispelling, 
And  heavenly  hope,  that  looks  within  the  veil ! 

Bright  lights  to  guide  us  until,  these  excelling, 
Our  faith  and  hope  in  glad  fruition  fail. 


AN   OLD   PARABLE  MODERNIZED. 

THE  Pharisee  stands,  with  outspread  hands, 
And  eyes  turned  up  in  prayer,  w 

In  his  cushioned  pew,  broadly  in  view, 
That  people  may  see  him  there ;  , 

And  good  people  praise  his  devotional  air, 

And  his  condescension  their  praise  to  share. 

But  the  humble  one  feels  his  dark  sins  roll 
Like  a  wave  o'er  his  bosom's  peace ; 

111,  ill  at  rest,  he  smites  his  breast, 
And  prays  that  his  strife  may  cease ; 

"  God  be  merciful  —  extend  thine  arm, 

Save  me,  a  sinner,  from  impending  harm  !  " 

And  the  God  that  reads  the  heart  that  pleads 

Shall  bless  to  that  humble  soul 
A  measure  of  peace  that  shall  never  cease 

O'er  life  its  blest  control ; 
Nor  shall  pride  or  self-trust  obtain  the  goal, 
Alone  to  be  gained  by  the  humble  soul. 


LINES  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

I  'M  sad  that  I  don't  know  you,  Miss,  nor  how  you  think 

or  look, 
No  more  than  you  the  stranger  one  who  thus  profanes 

your  book ; 
So  of  course  I  cannot  praise  you  much,  whatever  I  may 

say, 

Avoiding  thus  the  odiousness  of  flattery  in  my  lay. 
But  you  '11  still  be  my  inspirer,  as  in  tales  of  old  romance, 
When  many  a  knightly  pennon  waved  from  many  a  battle 

lance,  — 
When  knightly  vows  were  given  oft,  upheld  by  sword 

and  mace, 
Of  fealty  to  dames  of  straw,  who  'd  ne'er  revealed  their 

face,  — 

And  I,  like  these  old  chevaliers,  devote  my  pen  to  you, 
And  act  as  if  your  wish  and  will  your  votary  fully  knew. 
Write !  is  the  mandate,  and  at  once  my  muse  has  spread 

her  wing, 
And  this,  the  trophy  of  her  flight,  she  to  your  feet  doth 

bring : 

WOMAN. 

Thine  is  the  power  to  make  the  arid  plain 
Glow  bright  in  sweet  affection's  genial  ray, 
And,  twining  roses  round  man's  troubled  way, 

Bring  him,  though  lost,  to  Eden's  joys  again. 


116  LIXES   IX   AN    ALBUM. 

His  fall  becomes  his  bliss,  for  to  his  grief 
Thy  soothing  influence,  perpetual,  brings 
A  balm,  like  dew  from  night's  o'ershadowing  wings, 

Cheering  his  toil-bowed  heart  with  blest  relief. 

Without  thee  !  —  Heaven  knew  man's  direst  need, 
And  thee,  sweet  ministering  angel,  sent, 
With  earthly  and  with  heavenly  feelings  blent, 

To  heal  the  heart  that  otherwise  might  bleed. 

Thy  spirit  brightens  life's  care-clouded  vale, 

And  guides  him  hopeful  where  he  else  might  fail. 

'Tis  but  a  simple  tale  I  sing,  —  of  small  poetic  worth ; 
Soar  we  to  heaven  as  we  may,  our  thoughts  come  back  to 

earth  — 
For  though  woman's  angel  nature  might  claim  that  upper 

sphere, 
Her  better  portion  is  to  bless  the  sad  and  sorrowing  here. 


A  GLANCE  OUT  INTO  THE  COOL. 

"  And  a'  babbled  of  green  fields." 

A  BURNING  sun  above  is  gleaming, 
And,  as  we  bask  beneath  its  ray, 

The  yearning  fancy,  in  its  dreaming, 
Wandereth  from  the  town  away ; 

Wandereth  to  the  dim  recesses, 

Out  in  the  old  wood's  spreading  shade, 

Where  the  cool  circling  air  e'er  blesses, 
Where  the  hot  sunbeams  ne'er  have  strayed ; 

To  where  the  pine-trees'  mournful  breathing 
Lures  the  mind  to  peaceful  themes, 

Like  voice  of  some  good  spirit,  wreathing 
Heaven's  sweet  cadence  with  its  dreams; 

To  where,  remote  from  habitation, 

Within  a  deep  and  rocky  dell, 
O'erarching  trees,  in  exultation, 

Guard  in  their  shade  the  little  well, 


118         A  GLANCE  OUT  IXTO  THE  COOL. 

That  through  the  rocky  chancel  stealeth, 
With  a  low-murmuring  song  of  bliss, 

Till  brighter  blooms  the  flower  that  feeleth 
The  inspiration  of  its  kiss ; 

To  where  lone  paths,  'neath  sombre  shadows, 
Court  to  romantic  haunts  away, 

Where  purling  brooks,  in  emerald  meadows, 
Glow  lovely  in  the  light  of  day  ; 

To  where  bright  birds  the  morn  awaken, 
Greeting  its  coming  with  their  lays, 

And,  with  a  joyousness  unshaken, 

Make  glad  the  whole  long  summer  days ; 

To  where  old  Ocean,  wildly  dashing, 
Pours  its  broad  flood  upon  the  shore, 

The  mighty  volume  thundering,  crashing, 
Speaks  freedom  in  its  awful  roar ; 

To  where  deep  lakes,  mid  lofty  mountains, 

Shine  back  upon  the  summer  sky, 
Where  icy  rills,  from  secret  fountains, 

The  flower-decked  path  come  trickling  by,- 
Trickling  o'er  sands  of  pearly  whiteness, 

Pouring  their  treasures  at  his  feet, 
Tempting  the  eye  with  crystal  brightness, 

Tempting  the  lips  with  waters  sweet. 


A  GLANCE  OUT  INTO  THE  COOL.         119 

But,  like  the  artist,  whose  creation 

He  worshipped  as  a  thing  divine, 
So  we,  in  Nature's  contemplation, 

Yearn  to  do  homage  at  her  shrine. 

Away,  vain  phantom !  fond  illusion, 

Waking  discontent  and  doubt ! 
Say,  what  to  him  is  this  profusion, 

Who,  like  Sterne's  starling,  "  can't  get  out." 


THE  OLD  BACHELOR'S  BEQUEST. 

SHOWING  HOW  AN   OLD  BACHELOR  WAS   BROUGHT  TO   HIS   SENSES 
BY  THE   SOFTENING  INFLUENCE  OP   RHEUMATISM. 

OLD  ROGER  lay  groaning  in  bitter  pain, 

Alone  in  his  chamber  high  ; 
From  early  morn  he  'd  unheeded  lain, 

And  the  time  dragged  wearily  by. 

No  kindly  hands  or  voices  were  there, 

To  soothe  his  bitter  woe ; 
No  friendly  step  pressed  his  chamber  stair, 

A  sympathy  to  show. 

His  old  watch  whispered  the  waning  day, 

As  it  hung  above  his  head, 
And  phials  and  potions,  in  grim  array, 

Were  ranged  beside  his  bed. 

Alone !    How  sad  is  the  word  alone  ! 

How  sad  alone  to  feel ! 
Where  the  drear  hours  give  no  welcome  tone, 

Nor  one  kind  look  reveal. 

Then,  as  he  groaned,  a  sudden  thought, 

Like  a  ray  of  blessed  light, 
Illumined  his  mind,  with  sadness  fraught, 

And  put  his  gloom  to  flight. 


THE  OLD  BACHELOR'S  BEQUEST.  121 

"  I  '11  make  my  will,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"  And,  though  I  've  no  lands  to  give, 

I  '11  give  what  is  better  than  earthly  pelf, 
The  secret  of  how  to  live. 

"  I  '11  give  advice  that  shall  gladden  life, 
And  make  it  more  pleasantly  glide ; 

The  young  man  I  '11  counsel  to  marry  a  wife, 
And  the  maiden  to  be  a  bride, 

"  That,  when  the  long  days  of  sickness  press, 

They  may  not,  like  me,  be  alone, 
But  gentle  hearts  be  near,  to  bless, 

And  affection's  gentle  tone  ; 

"  Each  wish  be  watched  with  a  tender  care, — 

Where  loving  ones  shall  bring 
A  charm  to  surround  the  sufferer  there, 

That  will  blunt  affliction's  sting. 

"  Perchance  the  hour  by  childhood's  voice 

May  be  with  music  filled, 
Till  the  lagging  pulse  at  the  tone  rejoice, 

That  before  was  nearly  stilled. 

"  No  wife, —  no  child !     I  have  lived  in  vain, 

And  I  feel  my  error  keen ; 
0  !  could  I  renew  my  life  again, 

A  wiser  I  'd  be,  I  ween." 


THE  GARDEN  GRAVES. 

A  country  family  grave-yard  is  an  interesting  object,  always, 
where  a  small  precinct  is  sacredly  reserved  as  the  resting-place  of 
the  departed,  and  consecrated  by  affectionate  memory.  It  becomes 
a  home  object,  and  mingles  with  the  things  of  home,  from  its  famil 
iarity  rendering  death  less  terrible,  and  smoothing  the  way  that 
leads  to  renewed  companionship  with  the  departed.  In  Newington, 
N.  H.,  is  a  spot  of  this  description,  a  community  of  graves  in  a 
flower-garden  ;  the  beautiful  things  of  earth  blooming  among  them, 
and  the  air  above  them  filled  with  fragrance. 

BOOM  for  the  household  graves  amid  the  flowers  ! 

Room  for  the  young  and  pure, 

Whose  spirits  shall  endure, 
While  fade  away  earth's  perishable  bowers. 

Gentle  were  they  in  life,  those  cherished  dead ! 

And  hope's  effulgent  ray 

Shone  brightly  on  their  way, 
While  innocence  its  charm  around  them  shed. 

But  brightest  seasons  soon  are  overcast ; 

The  cloud  swept  by  in  gloom, 

And  to  an  early  tomb 
Have  goodness,  youth  and  beauty,  hither  passed. 


THE   GAKDEX    GRAVES.  123 

The  infant,  smiling,  sank  beneath  the  lid ; 

The  youth  with  kindling  thought, 

The  maiden,  beauty-fraught, 
And  all  are  in  the  garden  graves  here  hid. 

'Tis  meet  they  mingle  with  the  flowrets  bright, — 

With  the  fair  things  of  earth, — 

For  from  their  very  birth 
Did  they,  like  sweet  flowers,  shed  around  delight. 

And  here  can  fancy  turn,  as  seasons  fly, 

And  in  each  floral  gem 

Imagine  traits  of  them 
Reflected  in  the  earth  from  realms  on  high. 

A  consecrated  shrine  becomes  the  spot ; 

A  holy  bliss  is  shed 

About  their  lowly  bed, 
That  ever-changing  time  shall  deaden  not. 

They  are  not  dead,  but  sleeping  'mid  the  flowers ! 

To  wake  to  life  where  gloom 

Finds  in  its  sphere  no  room, 
As  in  this  sorrow-burdened  world  of  ours. 

Can  we  call  Death  a  messenger  of  woe, 

Where  with  his  glad  release 

He  gives  the  mortal  peace  ? 
A  hopeful  faith,  responsive,  answers  No. 


124  TIIE   GARDEN    GRAVES. 

Since  writing  the  foregoing  lines,  the  one  at  whose,  suggestion 
they  were  composed  has  been  added  to  the  number  gathered  within 
that  silent  community  among  the  flowers,  —  a  fit  receptacle  for  one 
beloved  for  beauties  of  character  that  had  long  marked  her  for  the 
higher  sphere  to  which  she  has  since  been  called. 

Naught  is  too  sacred  for  the  touch  of  Death, 

And  she,  the  radiant  one, 

Whom  love  so  leaned  upon, 
Has  felt  the  mildew  of  his  blighting  breath. 

She  died  when  flowers  were  opening  to  the  sun, 

When  germs  threw  by  the  earth, 

And  sprang  in  joy  to  birth, 
Their  brief  but  beauteous  destiny  to  run. 

Thus  her  bright  spirit  fled  its  cumbering  clay  ; 

Born  to  a  higher  life, 

Where  misery  nor  strife 
Shall  mar  the  glory  of  its  endless  day. 

They  laid  her  by  her  mates  amid  the  flowers, 

And  ne'er  did  dust  more  blest 

Pass  to  its  tranquil  rest, 
Nor  fairer  spirit  seek  celestial  bowers. 

And  kindly  will  the  flowers  their  perfume  fling, 

And  birds  with  music  rare 

Make  eloquent  the  air 
Above  the  bed  where  they,  the  loved,  lie  slumbering. 


THE    'BIDING   CURSE. 

ROOFLESS  and  dreary  the  old  pile  has  stood, 

For  many  a  weary  year, 
And  it  seemeth  no  home  for  aught  of  good, 

But  a  haunt  of  gloom  and  fear. 

The  bricks  are  crumbling  one  by  one, 

And  the  windows  widely  ope, 
And  sickly  plants  unguided  run, 

And  round  the  dark  walls  grope. 

And  children  avoid  it  in  their  play, 

As  't  were  a  thing  of  fright ; 
Alone  it  stands  in  the  glare  of  day, 

And  alone  in  the  hush  of  night. 

And  the  door-sills  are  rotting  the  doors  away, 
Though  they  ne'er  by  foot  are  prest, 

And  the  spider  holds  unchallenged  sway, 
With  no  hand  to  molest. 

And  the  spout  hangs  faint  by  a  feeble  nail, 

And  it  utters  a  doleful  cry, 
As  it  feels  the  force  of  the  passing  gale, 

Like  one  in  his  agony. 


126  THE  'BIDING  CURSE. 

How  ghastly  and  white  the  moonbeams  play 

Around  the  old  pile  drear  ! 
And  the  passer  hastens  upon  his  way, 

.With  a  feeling  of  pressing  fear. 

For  the  moonbeams  white  and  the  still  midnight, 

And  the  weakness  of  his  heart, 
Lead  him  to  dread  that  elf  or  sprite 

May  out  from  the  portal  start. 

Ah !  the  bitter  curse  that  the  old  man  spoke 

Is  working  its  mission  fell, 
And  the  spirit  of  dread  he  dared  invoke 

Has  woven  his  baleful  spell. 

Nor  prayers  nor  tears  nor  holy  years 

May  move  that  fearful  ban, 
Where  Desolation  its  form  uprears, 

And  laughs  at  the  fears  of  man. 

And  where  is  the  beautiful  Geraldine  now, 
With  her  wealth  of  golden  hair,  — 

And  her  eye  of  mirth,  that  made  that  hearth 
With  paradise  compare  ? 

And  where  is  the  sordid  wretch  so  cold, 

Who  won  the  charming  maid, 
And,  all  for  the  sake  of  her  father's  gold 

Her  guileless  heart  betrayed  ? 


THE  'BIDING  CURSE.  127 

Gone  —  all  gone — and  the  glad  home  gone  — 

Decay  on  its  hearthstone  reigns  ; 
The  insatiate  grave  hath  claimed  its  own, 

But  the  living  curse  remains. 

"  That  old  house,  there  ?   Why,  sir,  you  dream, 

That  'ere 's  a  'stillery  old  ! 
You  may  read  on  the  fence,  by  the  bright  moonbeam, 

That  to-morrow  't  is  to  be  sold." 

*     Thus  fades !  —  0,  plague  on  the  plodding  elf 

That  dared  my  dream  profane  ; 
I  '11  lay  me  by  on  some  quiet  shelf, 
And  try  to  dream  again. 


THE    OLD   IMAGE-MAKER. 

BUSILY  toileth,  the  whole  day  long, 
The  image-maker  his  works  among ; 

His  eye  from  his  labor  is  never  away, 

And  he  plies  his  toil  with  a  silent  tongue. 

Varied  and  strange  his  creations  appear, 

From  the  gay  and  bright  to  the  dull  and  sad ; 

And  every  image  is  moulded  here, 

As  the  maker's  fancy  is  gloomy  or  glad. 

Here  Innocence  stands  in  her  holiest  form, 
Her  brow  illumed  with  heaven's  own  ray ; 

Here  Hope  smiles  sweetly  mid  sorrow's  storm, 
And  points  the  true  to  a  happier  day. 

And  Love  appeareth  as  erst  he  seemed, 
Ere  blinded  and  stifled  with  sordid  dust, 

When  warm  in  his  ray  the  young  heart  beamed, 
Unmarred  by  doubt  and  undimmed  by  lust. 

Here  is  Youth,  with  the  glow  of  hopeful  pride, 
Impatiently  waiting  for  man's  estate, 

To  fling  himself  on  the  moving  tide, 
And  sink  or  swim  in  the  stream  of  Fate. 


THE   OLD   IMAGE-MAKER.  129 

Here  is  Ambition  and  early  Fame ; 

Here  serpent  Sin  in  many  a  fold, 
With  tongue  of  poison  and  eye  of  flame, 

And  glittering  scales  of  burnished  gold. 

Here  Grief  is  beheld,  and  her  swollen  eye 
Drops  sadly  a  tear  for  her  darling  dead ; 

How  more  for  the  living,  who  cannot  die, 
Should  those  sad  tears  of  Grief  be  shed ! 

Thus  ever  forms  he  the  sad  and  bright  — 
Living  again  'neath  his  master  hand ; 

Leading  captive  the  feeling  and  sight, 
Like  the  fabled  sway  of  a  magic  wand. 

That  image-maker  is  Memory  true, 
Working  deep  in  the  minds  of  men ; 

And  acts  and  feelings  of  every  hue, 
Or  pleasant  or  sad,  have  life  again. 
9 


WELCOME   TO    JENNY   LIND. 

WHEN  Genius  strikes  her  loftiest  note, 
0,  wide  is  its  vibration,  Jenny  ! 

It  sounds  through  lands  the  most  remote, 
Where  worth  wakes  admiration,  Jenny ; 

An  universal  meed  its  claim, 

Its  province  earth's  wide  limit,  Jenny ; 
Its  glory  spreadeth  like  a  flame, 

And. Death  alone  may  dim  it,  Jenny. 

Thy  praise  hath  swept  across  the  sea, 
Our  hearts  are  won  already,  Jenny ; 

All  heads,  elate  to  think  on  thee, 
Are  far  from  being  steady,  Jenny. 

From  east,  and  west,  and  south,  and  north, 
We  hear  the  same  note  rising,  Jenny, 

Heralding  thy  rare  virtues  forth, 
And  loveliness  surprising,  Jenny. 

All  breezes  waft  the  theme  along, 
In  every  clime  it 's  sounded,  Jenny ; 

For  all  men  fealty  pay  to  song, 

In  lands,  "  however  bounded,"  Jenny. 


WELCOME  TO  JENNY  LIND.  131 

We  prize  thee  for  thy  merits  bright, 
Thy  heart's  warm  flow  of  pity,  Jenny ; 

Ten  thousand  tongues,  with  wild  delight, 
Cry  welcome  to  our  city,  Jenny. 

We  greet  thee  with  a  cordial  cheer, 

And  bless  thy  smile  so  winning,  Jenny ; 

Each  heart  beats  glad  that  thou  art  here, 
And  each  man's  head 's  a  spinning,  Jenny ' 


SPIRIT   LONGING. 

FOREVER  wakefully  the  ear  is  turning 

To  catch  some  token  from  the  shadowy  sphere 

Forever  is  the  full  heart  strongly  yearning 
Some  word  of  promise  from  its  depths  to  hear. 

When  the  dark  shadows  flit  along  the  ceiling, 
As  the  dull  firelight  trembles  in  the  grate, 

Fancy,  fond  yet  with  old  remembered  feeling, 
Striveth  the  loved  and  lost  to  re-create. 


It  feels  their  presence  in  the  hush  of  even, 
When  day's  excitement  settles  to  repose ; 

It  sees  them  in  the  twilight  hues  of  heaven, 
And  in  the  beauties  that  the  stars  disclose. 


It  heeds  the  breezes  that  around  are  playing, 
And  in  their  music  fain  that  voice  would  hear, 

Whose  melody  it  deems  may  yet  be  straying, 
To  glad  the  faithful  hearts  yet  sorrowing  here. 


SPIRIT   LONGING.  133 

When  midnight,  resting  like  a  pall  above  us, 

Within  its  dusky  arms  enfoldeth  all, 
We  list  for  those  whom  hope  says  still  may  love  us, 

And  sigh  as  their  unanswering  names  we  call. 

We  dream,  and  ever-faithful  memory  bringeth 
Old  happiness  we  may  not  know  awake ; 

The  rose  of  pleasure  in  our  pathway  springeth, 
And  rills  of  joy  where  we  our  thirst  may  slake. 

But,  0,  returning  consciousness  dispelleth 
The  sweet  illusion  in  whose  thrall  was  bliss, 

And  strife  renewed  in  life's  encounter  quelleth 
Regrets,  as  we  our  dreams  of  joy  dismiss  ! 

And  are  there  kindred  spirits  dwelling  by  us, 
And  mingling  yet  their  loving  thoughts  with  ours, 

Forever  drawing  in  communion  nigh  us, 

In  virtue's  way  to  cheer  our  lagging  powers  ? 

0,  are  there  voices  that  may,  at  our  asking, 
Come  to  assure  us  of  that  better  state, 

Where,  evermore  in  endless  pleasures  basking, 
Those  gone  before  our  fond  reunion  wait  ? 

The  seeking  soul  asks  for  prophetic  vision 
To  penetrate  the  dark,  mysterious  cloud 

That  intervenes  between  the  land  elysian 

And  this  dull  earth,  where  sins  and  sorrows  crowd. 


• 


134  SPIRIT  LONGING. 

The  grave  is  not  a  bourn  whose  sombre  portal 
Closeth  eternal  o'er  the  bright  and  fair, 

But  through  its  gate  to  blessedness  immortal 
The  spirit  passeth,  endless  life  to  share. 

Still  old  affection  hereward  back  is  turning, 
And  whispering  words  to  us  of  joy  and  peace, 

And  spiritual  eyes  are  round  us  burning 

With  holier  love  as  heavenly  powers  increase. 


A   SWEET   REVENGE. 

It  is  a  glorious  privilege  that  a  poor  fellow,  without  a  cent  in 
his  pocket,  enjoySj  to  pitch  into  the  rich  with  a  will,  without  a  fear 
of  being  hit  back.  The  following  may  be  of  this  spirit ;  but,  alas  ! 
there  is  much  in  the  world  to  warrant  the  belief  in  its  truth.  We 
have  adapted  the  title  of  the  poem  to  the  above  idea. 

THERE  lived  a  man,  —  no  matter  where  or  when, — 
A  man  of  note  and  mightiness  was  he ; 

He  bore  control  among  his  fellow-men, 
And  wealthy  was  on  land  and  on  the  sea. 

He  houses  reared,  and  lived  in  grand  estate,  — 
Had  servants  trembling  wait  for  his  command ; 

His  heart  with  vast  possession  was  elate, 
And  honors  thickly  pressed  on  every  hand ; 

And  white-winged  ships  rushed  far  to  do  his  will, 
And  men  were  toiling  for  him  in  the  mart ; 

His  word  could  loose  the  wheels  of  many  a  mill, 
His  mandate  cause  the  streams  of  trade  to  start. 


136  A   SWEET   REVEXGE. 

Withdrawn  his  smile,  and  banks  refused  their  aid; 

Frowned  he,  and  happy  faces  anxious  grew ; 
A  potentate  within  the  realm  of  trade, 

One  only  motive  in  his  life  he  knew  : 

He  lived  for  money,  —  bartered  all  for  dross,  — 
No  holier  motive  moved  his  sordid  soul  ; 

His  only  fear  was  wakened  for  its  loss,  — 
His  only  knowledge  lay  in  its  control. 

And  thus  he  lived.     Benevolence  ne'er  shone, 
In  one  blest  act,  to  mark  his  selfish  way  ; 

No  pity  smiled  in  him,  that  might  atone 

For  avarice  there  which  held  unceasing  sway. 

But  equal  fate,  at  last,  ends  rich  and  poor ! 

Disease,  that  knows  not  station,  bowed  him  down ; 
The  rich  man's  wealth  could  not  its  lord  secure 

From  ills  that  fall  in  anguish  on  the  clown. 

He  died.     The  grave  closed  o'er  his  hoary  head, 
And  lying  marble  gleamed  above  the  sod, 

On  which  the  passing  scoffer  sneering  read, 
"  An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  G-od." 

Yet,  further  than  earth's  narrow  bounds  we  go, — 
To  man  the  power  of  prophecy  is  given  ; 

He  sees  that  soul,  so  proud  in  wealth  below, 
Of  mean  account  among  the  hosts  of  heaven. 


A   SWEET   KEVENGE.  137 

The  beggars  of  the  earth  who  sought  his  aid, 
And  turned  unpitied  from  his  door  away, 

Stand  in  those  heavenly  courts  in  light  arrayed, 
Where  his  weak  vision  may  not  dare  to  stray. 

Too  late  he  mourns  facilities  misspent, 
As  retrospect  his  life-chart  doth  unroll ; 

He  sees  that  adding  earthly  cent  to  cent 
Was  forging  fetters  for  his  weary  soul. 


PARSON    STOKER    IN    A    FIX;    OR,    THE 
MAGIC    OF   A   KISS   MISAPPLIED. 

AN  austere  planet  ruled  the  hour  when  Parson  S.  had 

birth, 
The  veriest  crab  that  ever  backward  crawled  upon  the 

earth; 
All  worldly  loves  and  worldly  lights  he  reckoned  but  a 

sham, 
And,  though  his  calling  was  to  save,  he  would  much 

rather  damn. 
Stern  rigor  dwelt  within  his  eyes,  naught  kindly  there 

was  seen, — 

Severity  was  written  plain  in  all  his  sombre  mien ; 
The  urchins  slunk  his  path  away  and  glanced  at  him 

awry, 

Their  marbles  unregarded  lay  while  he  was  passing  by ; 
The  dogs  would  stop  their  barking  and  demurely  walk 

away, 
As  they  saw  his  eye  upon  them,  would  "Sweetheart, 

Blanche  and  Tray." 

A  joke  he  called  frivolity,  —  a  quiz  was  aye  his  bane, 
A  joyous  laugh  he  'd  sadly  hope  he  'd  never  heaT  again ; 


PARSON   STOKER   IN   A   FIX.  139 

It  was  said  he  hanged  a  puppy-dog  that  once  had  dared 

to  play 
And  frolic  round  his  study  floor  upon  a  Sabbath  day. 

0,  how  he  frowned  the  custom  down  where  girls  and  lads 

would  meet, 

And  sourer  than  verjuice  he  to  hear  their  kisses  sweet ! 
He  wanted  courtship   godly  done,  —  a   special   service 

writ,  — 
The  ways  that  nature  had  prescribed  he  did  n't  like  a 

bit. 

Now,  the  parson  had  a  servant-maid,  —  a  little  charming 

girt. 
Her  face  was  graced  by  many  a  smile,  her  head  by  many 

a  curl; 

Her  eye  was  blue  as  heaven,  and  like  a  bird's  her  voice, 
A  glance  of  which,  a  tone  of  which,  made  many  a  heart 

rejoice ; 

Her  heart  was  always  spring-light  and  all  devoid  of  care, 
And  everybody  wondered  how  it  chanced  that  she  came 

there. 

If  Parson  Storer  chided  her,  she  heeded  not  a  grain, 

But  her  voice  soon  sounded  cheerily  around  the  house 
again; 

'T  would  echo  through  the  parsonage,  through  gallery 
and  room, 

Till  the  ancient  pile  was  robbed  per  force  of  half  its  som 
bre  gloom. 


140  PARSON*   STOKER   IN   A   FIX;    OR, 

Now,  Susan  —  that 's  her  name  —  had  a  lover  true  and 
kind, 

But  to  follow  by  the  parson's  rule  they  never  were  in 
clined; 

The  kitchen  fire  saw  many  a  scene  that,  had  the  parson 
kenned, 

Would  have  furnished  texts  for  homilies  and  sermons 
without  end. 

When  the  light  had  left  the  parson's  room,  an  hour  after 

prayers, 
And  many  an  hour   after  that,  was  brightly  burning 

theirs ; 

And  kisses  sweet  and  many,  and  many  a  tender  word, 
Had  the  clock  that  stood  behind  the  door  both  witnessed 

and  heard. 

0,  love !  thou  art  delicious  when  dressed  in  sauce  like 

this! 
I  often  think  't  were  well  to  stop  at  this  way-house  to 

bliss, 

For  wear  and  tear  of  after  years  must  sprinkle  in  alloy, 
Which  ardent  lovers  never  know  in  plenitude  of  joy. 

It  was  on  the  night  of  Saturday,  and  the  parson's  light 

was  out, 

And  Susan — bright,  expecting  Sue — was  bustling  about; 
With  eager  eye  she  marked  the  door,  with  eager  ear  the 

lock, 
Awaiting  anxiously  to  hear  the  music  of  that  knock. 


THE  MAGIC   OF  A   KISS   MISAPPLIED.  141 

At  last,  her  patience  wholly  spent,  she  looked  out  on  the 

night ; 
The  moon  had  sunk  behind  the  hills,  the  stars  were  dimly 

bright, 
She  listened  long  to  hear  the  step  that  she  was  wont  to 

hear, 
When  a  hand  upon  the  outer  gate  gave  rapture  to  her 

ear. 

Upon  the  wings  of  love  she  flew  (don't  think  of  earthly 

feet! 

'T  is  vulgar,  such  a  medium,  where  ardent  lovers  meet) ; 
She  clasped  the  comer  in  her  arms,  she  hung  upon  his 

breast, 

As  captured  bird  would  cling  restored  unto  its  natal  nest ; 
And  kisses  shed  she  on  his  lips,  —  her  words  outgushing 

fast,  — 
"Bless  you,  Samuel,  my  dear,  and  have  you  come  at 

last?" 

"Susan,  what  means  this?"  gently  spoke  the  parson's 

heavy  tone, 

For  it  was  he,  and  no  one  else,  out  in  the  night  alone ; 
And  sore  surprised  was  he  to  feel  the  ardor  thus  bestowed, 
But  his  breast  experienced  a  flame  that  never  there  had 

glowed. 

And  Parson  Storer  grew  a  man  of  better  mould  from 

then, 
And  acted  out  a  better  part  among  his  fellow-men  ; 


142  THE  MAGIC   OP   A  KISS   MISAPPLIED. 

And  people  talked,  as  oft  they  will,  and  shoulders  they 

did  shrug, 
And  laid  his  new-found  gentleness  to  pretty  Susan's  hug. 

And  Susan  married  happily,  and  fortune's  sunny  rays 
Smiled  on  her  and  her  children  for  many,  many  days ; 
And  oft  has  she  the  story  told,  with  ever  new  delight, 
Of  how  she  hugged  the  parson  there  upon  that  summer 
night. 


THE   COTTAGE   BY   THE   SEA. 

THERE  's  a  lonely  cottage  that  stands  by  the  sea, 

A  dreary  old  pile  to  view ; 
The  winds  howl  around  it  most  dismally, 

And  whistle  its  crannies  through. 

The  salt  spray  whitens  its  walls  of  clay, 

And  gleams  in  its  roof  of  thatch, 
And  the  swallows  build  in  its  chimney  gray, 

And  their  young  in  quiet  hatch. 

'T  is  here  the  hardy  fisherman  dwells,  — 

The  fisherman  bold  and  free ; 
He  knows  the  tale  that  the  bluff  wind  tells, 

And  the  whisperings  of  the  sea. 

He  reads  the  stars,  like  a  book,  by  night ; 

And  the  bright  auroral  rim, 
That  arches  the  north  with  its  mystical  light, 

Has  a  meaning  deep  to  him. 


144  THE   COTTAGE   BY    THE   SEA. 

The  tides  that  flow  and  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  the  sea-birds  on  the  wing, 
And  the  clouds  that  rise  in  the  changing  skies, 

To  him  all  wisdom  bring. 

He  launches  his  boat  on  the  heaving  wave, 
Where,  far  down  its  crystal  deep, 

The  ocean's  tenants  in  freedom  lave, 
Or  in  peaceful  shallows  sleep. 

He  casts  his  line  where  the  fishes  shine, 
In  the  breast  of  the  generous  sea ; 

And  he  utters  a  prayer,  —  "  0,  motherly  Mer, 
Be  bountiful  unto  me  ! " 

And  the  motherly  sea  her  stores  unseals, 
And  she  gives  with  a  ready  hand ; 

More  lavish  and  free  are  the  fruits  of  the  sea 
Than  the  yield  of  the  sluggish  land. 

There 's  the  fisherman's  waiting  wife  at  home, 
And  the  fisherman's  boys  and  girls, 

And  that  little  one,  who  will  laughingly  run, 
To  kiss  him  through  her  curls. 

Then  his  boat  glides  over  the  yielding  spray, 

As  he  bends  to  the  ashen  oar ; 
And  his  fluick  ear  hears,  from  afar  away, 

A  welcoming  cry  from  the  shore. 


THE   COTTAGE   BY   THE   SEA.  145 

Thus  the  fisherman  lives  most  happy  and  free, 

Nor  other  wealth  doth  crave 
Than  the  blessing  of  love  and  his  liberty, 

And  the  product  of  the  wave. 

No  palace  of  wealth,  with  gorgeous  Btate, 

No  castle  of  high  degree, 
Contains  a  joy  more  pure  or  great 

Than  the  cottage  by  the  sea. 
10 


ON   THE   DEATH    OF   A   CHILD. 

"  Is  it  well  with  the  child  1    And  she  answered,  It  is  well." 

How  fondly  to  their  little  charge  they  clung, 

Nor  deemed  the  spoiler  near,  with  cruel  skill 
To  chill  in  silence  that  melodious  tongue, 

Whose  gentle  note  had  made  their  heart-strings  thrill, 
Blessing  their  home  with  the  sweet  influence  shed 

From  the  rich  treasure  of  a  child's  full  love, 
And  the  quick  moments,  as  they  onward  sped, 

Filling  with  rapture  equalled  but  above  ! 

Hard  is  the  blow  that  sunders  love  like  this,  — 

The  bleeding  heart  rebels  when  thus  't  is  riven  ; 
So  long  a  feaster  on  its  borrowed  bliss, 

It  grudges  what  is  gathered  back  to  heaven ; 
Crushed  and  despairing  in  its  night  of  grief, 

It  cannot  see  the  hand  that  wields  the  rod, 
But  reason's  light  will  come  to  its  relief, 

And  show  the  dealing  of  a  righteous  God. 

Then  time  will  strew  around  that  little  grave 
Perennial  roses,  endless  in  their  bloom, 

And  memory,  faithful  memory,  shall  save 
All  that  was  lovely  from  that  early  tomb  ; 


ON  THE  DEATH  OP  A  CHILD.          147 

The  pain,  the  misery  of  the  dying  child 
Will  be  forgotten  in  the  distant  days, 

While  every  look  of  love  that  on  them  smiled 
Will  be  revealed  to  retrospection's 


Its  image,  printed  deep  within  the  heart, 

Reflected  in  the  air,  the  tree,  the  flower, 
Shall  richest  comfort  to  the  last  impart, 

Till  closes  life's  short,  perishable  hour. 
Then,  brighter  than  when  on  the  earth  it  smiled, 

'T  will  beckon  onward  to  the  world  of  rest  ; 
Blest  region  !  where  the  parent  and  the  child 

May  find  reunion  'mongst  the  immortal  blest. 


THE  TABLES  TURNED:  A  DOGGEREL. 

Or  how  Alderman  Jones  saw  things  in  a  dream  which  may  go  to 
account  for  the  repeal  of  the  dog  law. 

THE  sad  nineteenth*  had  come  and  passed, 
And  many  a  fair  cur  breathed  its  last 
Beneath  fell  blows  and  cruel  licks 
From  urchins  armed  with  oaken  sticks, 
Or  huge  men  waiting  but  the  word 
To  murder  all  the  canine  herd. 
The  law  to  back  them,  small  they  cared, 
But  pug  and  poodle  equal  fared, 
And  sturdy  bull-dogs,  terriers,  setters, 
Were  stilled  in  death's  unyielding  fetters, 
And  headless  lay  as  still  as  clods, 
Let  owners  see  them,  hang  the  odds  ! 
0,  't  was  a  horrid,  frightful  slaughter, 
And  all  Cochituate's  pure  water 
Can  from  fair  Boston  ne'er  efface 
This  record  of  her  dire  disgrace. 

That  night  saw  Alderman  Jones  in  bed, 
A  warm  wool  nightcap  on  his  head, 

*  On  the  19th  of  April,  18 — ,  the  law  went  into  effect  authorizing 
the  killing  of  all  dogs,  at  large,  not  muzzled. 


THE  TABLES  TURNED  :  A  DOGGEREL.       149 

And,  tucked  in  snug,  he  lay  reposing,  — 

Sweet  Mrs.  J.  beside  him  dozing ! 

The  night  had  passed  till  twelve  and  over, 

When  blackest  shadows  o'er  us  hover, 

When  "church-yards  yawn,"  and  ghosts  and  devils 

And  other  kidney  make  their  revels. 

'T  is  best  to  be  in  bed  by  nine, 
With  conscience  undisturbed,  like  mine; 
Then  sleep  will  seal  your  eyelids  weary, 
And  all  your  dreams  be  bright  and  cheery ; 
But  Mr.  Jones,  inclined  to  royster, 
Had  that  night  taken  one  more  oyster 
Than  was  his  usual  habit  fixed, 
And  forty  drops  of  brandy,  mixed 
With  "  aqua  pur  a  "  just  to  soften 
The  ill  of  drinking  water  often  ; 
And  troubled  images  perplexing, 
Soul-harrowing  and  wild  and  vexing, 
Came  up  within  his  mind  while  sleeping, 
That  set  his  very  flesh  all  creeping ; 
His  hair  arose  on  end  like  bristles, 
And  fancy  showered  on  him  thistles 
That  stung  and  burned  him  as  he  lay, 
From  which  he  could  not  get  away. 
The  sweat  ran  down  his  sides  like  rain,  — 
He  tossed  and  turned  and  turned  again, 
Till  Mrs.  Jones,  her  patience  shaken, 
Strove  her  fast-sleeping  spouse  to  waken, 


150  THE   TABLES   TURNED:    A   DOGGEREL. 

And  on  the  word,  as  soon  as  spoke, 
He  started  up,  —  the  spell  was  broke. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  —  he  looked  affrighted  • 
Till  on  his  wife  his  glance  alighted, 
Then  spoke,  in  tones  with  horror  filled, 
"  Call  off  the  dogs,  or  I  am  killed ! " 

A  shake  or  two  from  Mrs.  J. 

Dispelled  the  mists  that  round  him  lay, 
When,  rousing  to  a  lucid  state, 
He  told  the  dream  I  here  relate  : 

He  thought  that  by  some  high  decision 
Man's  power  was  brought  into  derision, 
And  in  one  little,  fleeting  hour 
He  was  deposed,  and  dogs  had  power, 
To  prove  the  antiquated  say 
That  every  "  dog  should  have  his  day." 
Reversed  was  everything  in  town,  — 
The  dogs  went  up  the  men  went  down, 
And  every  station  and  estate, 
That  man  had  occupied  of  late, 
Was  handed  o'er  to  canine  rule, 
In  hall  and  cottage,  mart  and  school  ; 
In  doctor's  chair  and  pulpit  high 
The  dogs  were  placed  their  skill  to  try ; 
A  big  dog  filled  the  judge's  seat, 
In  wig  and  fixings  all  complete, 
And  jury  dogs,  like  human  brothers, 
Sat  listening  to  the  tales  of  others ; 


THE   TABLES   TUKNED  :    A  "l>OGGEEEL.  151 

And,  what  to  Jones  seemed  very  strange, 
Many  scarcely  marked  the  change, 
Accustomed  they  so  long  before 
To  see  them  filled  by  little  more. 
And  canine  councils  gravely  scanned 
The  works  the  tyrant  man  had  planned, 
Devoutly  thankful  kindly  fate 
Had  called  them  in  to  save  the  state. 

Then  time  went  by,  and  they  detected 

That  man  by  madness  was  infected,  — 

That  dread  of  water  was  the  sign 

By  which  the  malady  to  define,  — 

And  straightway,  for  their  own  protection, 

They  passed  a  law  to  stay  the  infection  : 

That  every  man  who  water  dreaded 

Should  first  be  caught  and  then  beheaded, 

Unless  he  wore  a  muzzle  snug 

Around  his  brandy-branded  mug, 

And  every  one  who  passed  for  man 

Was  reckoned  fitting  for  the  ban ; 

Then  men  walked  round  with  leathern  straps 

Upon  their  mouths,  or  wire  traps, 

Or  some  device  their  masters  picked 

A  kindly  misery  to  inflict. 

Alas  for  those  who  went  unguarded ! 
Their  rashness  was  with  stripes  rewarded : 
Official  dogs,  with  iron  teeth, 
Soon  worried,  hurried  them  to  death, 


152  THE  TABLES  TURNED:  A  DOGGEREL. 

And  fifty  cents  a  head  was  given 

For  those  which  were  n't  worth  half  when  living ; 

And  mangled  forms  lay  scattered  round, 

Headless  and  marked  by  many  a  wound ; 

And  taunts  of  sausages  and  pies, 

Like  human  ribald,  did  arise, 

Till  it  was  hard  to  choose  the  best, 

The  canine  or  the  human  jest. 

Then  men  grew  timid  in  their  state ; 
Soon  changed  was  tone  and  step  elate, 
And  humble  were  the  high  and  proud, 
The  biggest  of  the  human  crowd. 

An  alderman  ran  from  a  puppy's  bark, 

A  huge  policeman  hid  his  mark, 

And  broke  his  switch  at  a  small  dog's  growl, 

As  he  raced  down  street  with  a  horrid  howl ; 

And  Jones's  self,  while  his  breath  did  fail, 

Was  chased  with  a  tin  pot  tied  to  his  tail, 

And  a  big  dog  tried  were  he  mad,  with  a  wink, 

By  offering  him  some  water  to  drink  ! 

This  was  going  too  far  for  a  joke, 

And  glad  was  he  when  at  last  he  awoke, 

And  the  sequel  was  that  his  dire  affright 

Kept  him  awake  the  live-long  night. 


THE   MISER. 

No  more  doth  the  miser  count  his  gold 

By  the  lamp's  uncertain  ray; 
Nor  brings  he  it  from  that  hidden  hold 

Where  years  it  hath  lain  away. 

No  cumbrous  bars  of  the  oaken  wood, 

No  walls  of  the  granite  stone, 
Needeth  he  now  to  preserve  that  good 

Which  once  was  his  care  alone. 

He  soundly  sleeps  in  his  midnight  bed, 

Nor  feareth  he  for  his  pelf; 
No  loaded  pistols  are  'neath  his  head, 

No  daggers  near  on  the  shelf. 

He  trembles  no  more  at  the  watchman's  tread, 
As  he  paceth  his  nightly  round ; 

And  he  quakes  not  with  that  olden  dread 
At  the  least  mysterious  sound. 

But  a  shrewd  old  fellow  he  grows  each  day, 
And  has  found,  to  his  heart's  content, 

That  better  than  packing  of  dollars  away 
Is  the  grateful  cent  per  cent. 


154  THE  MISER. 

And  he  '11  tell  a  friend,  with  a  knowing  wink, 

Who  his  former  practice  knew, 
That  though  one  dollar  may  pleasantly  chink, 

There  's  pleasanter  music  in  two. 

There  's  red  on  his  brow,  and  a  gleam  in  his  eye, 
As  he  wanders  through  the  mart ; 

And  blandly  smiles  he  on  passers-by, 
But  there  's  usury  in  his  heart. 

And  toils  he,  and  toils  he  the  dollars  to  win, 

And  add  to  his  gathering  pelf, 
Nor  thinks  he  once  that  the  father  of  sin 

Has  a  short  mortgage  on  himself; 

That  the  time  of  foreclosing  must  soon  arrive, 

And  then,  to  save  his  soul, 
'T  will  be  vain  in  any  known  court  to  strive, 

For  the  fiend  will  get  the  whole. 

And  this  be  the  moral  to  grace  my  lay  : 

It  is  n't  investing  well, 
To  sordidly  barter  your  soul  away, 

And  receive  your  payment  in . 


SILVER  vs.  TIN; 

OR,  CHILDHOOD  IN   ITS  CUPS. 

I  SAW  a  rich  man's  child,  with  gloomy  air, 

Holding  a  silver  cup  within  her  hand, 
The  cup  well  filled  with  some  rich  beverage  rare, 

Mixed  by  a  maid  who  by  her  side  did  stand ; 
With  petulance  she  raised  the  honeyed  drink, 

And,  quicker  than  the  eye  the  thought  could  trace, 
Ere  the  meek  maiden  had  a  chance  to  wink, 

Dash  went  the  sweetening  in  her  patient  face ! 
I  thought  within  myself  that,  should  it  come, 
And  I  'd  a  child  like  that,  I  'd  give  it  "  some." 

I  saw  a  poor  man's  child,  with  cup  of  tin, 

Sitting  and  singing  by  her  father's  door ; 
Treacle  and  water  were  the  cup  within,  — 

Treacle  quite  tart,  the  water  dreadful  poor ; 
And  as  the  child  trilled  forth  a  cheerful  note,  — 

("  0,  don't  you  cry,  Susannah,"  was  the  tune),  — 
Anon  she  moistened  her  little  throat 

By  small  libations  from  an  iron  spoon  ; 
And  here  methought  that  silver  could  not  buy 
The  happiness  that  glistened  in  her  eye. 


SOLDIER,  COME  HOME! 

Addressed  particularly  to  Captain  John  H.  Jackson,  of  Portsmouth, 
N.  H.,  engaged  in  the  war  with  Mexico. 

SOLDIER,  come  home  !     There  waits  a  heart-felt  greeting 
Thy  coming  by  thy  own  hearth-stone  again ; 

The  gladdest  smiles  will  bless  the  happy  meeting, 
And  tears  bedew  thy  neck  like  summer  rain,  — 

Shed  from  bright  eyes  that  wept  at  thy  departing, 
For  the  stern  destiny  that  bid  thee  roam,  — 

But  joy  will  prompt  the  tears  that  then  are  starting. 
Soldier,  come  home ! 

Soldier,  come  home !     The  weary,  weary  hours 
Have  left  their  marks  on  those  thou  left  behind  ! 

There 's  many  a  thorn  grown  rankling  'mid  the  flowers, 
There  's  many  a  gray  lock  with  the  dark  entwined  j 

The  heart  alone  unchanged,  thy  form  has  guarded, 
Prayed  for  thy  weal  'mid  battle's  dire  alarms, 

Hoped  for  the  time  when  fear  should  be  discarded 
Within  thine  arms. 


SOLDIER,   COME   HOME!  157 

Soldier,  come  home  !     Ah,  how  the  full  heart,  yearning, 
Has  wildly  throbbed  to  measures  of  thy  fame ; 

Affection's  eye  still  to  the  glad  line  turning 
That  bore  due  tribute  to  thy  gallant  name  ; 

With  quick  pulse  beating  at  each  passing  story, 
Telling  of  valiant  deeds  on  many  a  field, 

Till,  catching  fire  from  the  tale  of  glory, 
All  fears  did  yield ! 

Soldier,  come  home  !     From  strange  airs  danger  breath 
ing. 

To  scenes  remembered  by  the  camp-fire's  blaze, 
When  Fancy  fond  her  images  was  wreathing, 

And  home  and  friends  were  present  to  thy  gaze ; 
The  star-lit  picture  of  thy  midnight  dreaming 

Return  and  verify,  no  more  to  roam, 
And  scenes,  delights,  with  which  thy  mind  was  teeming, 
Enjoy  at  home. 

Soldier,  come  home  !     Bring  back  the  faithful  token 
That  interposed  thy  precious  life  to  save,  —  * 

A  sister's  love-charm,  like  a  chain  unbroken, 
Releasing  not  its  spell  this  side  the  grave,  — 

And  wear  it  as  a  God-gift  when  in  haven, 

As  when  around  thee  strife's  wild  waves  did  rage, 

And  on  thy  heart  may  its  high  truths  be  graven, 
A  brilliant  page ! 

*  He  had  a  little  Testament,  a  gift  from  a  sister,  in  his  breast 
pocket. 


158  SOLDIEB,   COME  HOME! 

Soldier,  come  home !    From  War's  rude  shocks  recover ; 

Cast  by  the  sword  for  implement  of  peace ; 
May  her  bright  spirit  o'er  thy  pathway  hover, 

And  bid  thy  weary  soul  its  troubles  cease ; 
The  guerdon  of  a  grateful  country's  praise 

Shall  be  a  halo  round  thy  passing  years, 
And  the  bold  story  of  thy  battle  days 
Glad  greedy  ears. 


THE  UNION. 

HEAVEN  save  our  glorious  Union,  and  save  it  in  its  might, 
With  ne'er  a  wind  to  blow  it  harm,  and  ne'er  a  frost  to 

blight ; 

Most  stanchly  has  it  stood  by  us  in  happiness  and  woe, 
And  we  '11  cling  to  it  for  safety  as  our  chiefest  hope  below. 

'Tis  twined  in  power  around  our  land — an  adamantine 
chain, 

Forged  long  ago,  in  blood  and  strife,  on  many  a  battle- 
plain — 

Forged,  too,  by  northern  men  and  south,  with  earnest 
thoughts  impressed, 

Who  held  this  thought  the  holiest  that  burned  within 
their  breast. 

The  iron  of  their  earnest  souls  was  welded  in  its  strength, 
And  faith  and  hope,  that  knew  no  bound,  were  measured 
in  its  length ; 


160  THE  UNION. 

They  wound  it  round  each  hearth  and  home,  a  hallowed 

thing  and  blest, 
A  sacred  ark  to  cherish  true,  a  shield  when  trouble 

pressed. 

When  war-clouds  broke  upon  our  land,  within  its  circling 

might 

A  power  strong  was  found  to  put  all  hostile  ills  to  flight, 
And  warmest  blessings  crowned  the  bond  that  rendered 

safety  sure, 
And  vows  arose  to  love  it  long,  from  grateful  hearts  and 

pure ; 

To  teach  it  to  the  rising  age,  a  watch-word  for  its  day, 
When  its  framers  and  their  counsels  should  have  passed 

from  earth  away ; 

To  be  a  light  upon  the  wave,  a  beacon  on  the  shore, 
In  whose  serene  unfailing  ray  were  safety  evermore. 

The  UNION  !  —  't  is  a  tower  of  strength  that  puny  arms 

may  threat ; 

Its  basis  is  the  people's  heart,  and  is  not  shaken  yet ; 
The  teeth  that  strive  to  gnaw  the  chain  shall  find  its 

metal  true, 
Its  strength  a  world  of  power  yet  not  easy  to  subdue. 

0 !  palsied  be  the  hand  to  give  the  sacrilegious  blow, 

To  lay  this  temple  of  our  hopes  in  desolation  low, 

To  dash  to  earth  the  altar-fires  that  blaze  within  the 

fane, 
The  blood  of  Freedom's  sacrifice  thus  offered  up  in  vain ! 


THE  UNION.  161 

But  we  '11  cling  to  it  —  we  '11  cling  to  it  —  and  the  people 

in  their  might 

Shall  once  again  re-ratify  the  charter  of  their  right ; 
For  the  Union  they  have  spoken,  in  tones  that  may  not 

swerve, 
And  vow  in  solemn  majesty  the  UNION  TO  PRESERVE  ! 

NOTE.  —  The  above  was  sent  to  Ensign  Stebbings,  for  his  approval. 
It  found  the  ensign  just  as  he  had  concluded  his  Fourth  of  July 
dinner,  at  which  unusually  good  appetite  had  prevailed,  and  the 
sentiments  of  the  season  had  been  remarkably  spirited  and  patriotic, 
in  view  of  recent  events.  He  read  the  poem  attentively,  his  eye 
beamed  with  unwonted  fire,  he  grasped  instinctively  the  carving- 
knife  ! — but,  at  that  moment,  he  was  recalled  to  a  state  of  calm 
ness  by  some  one  asking  him  for  a  piece  of  the  pig  ;  and,  putting 
the  poem  carefully  in  his  pocket-book,  he  placed  it  in  the  side- 
pocket  next  his  patriotic  heart.  He  was  too  full  to  speak. 
11 


A  PLEASURE  TRIP  TO  HAMPTON 

A   "POEM,"   OF  COtTESE. 

THE  day  is  warm,  and  very  muggy, 

And  Mr.  Sled  he  has  a  notion 
That  he  will  take  the  horse  and  buggy, 

And  Mrs.  Sled,  to  see  the  ocean. 

And  Mrs.  Sled  has  coaxed  her  Mister, 
And  he,  the  dear  kind-hearted  man, 

Has  given  consent  to  take  her  sister,  — 
A  slight  departure  from  his  plan. 

Then  Johnny  and  Mally, 
And  Bobby  and  Sally, 

And  little  Joe  Alley,  less  stocking  or  shoe, 
Set  up  such  a  clatter, 
That,  to  settle  the  matter, 

The  kind  Mr.  Sled  says  they  may  go  too. 

And  then  he  lays  in  lots  of  pickings, 
Mammoth  dough-nuts,  legs  of  chickens, 


A  PLEASURE  TRIP   TO  HAMPTON.  163 

Apple-pies  and  ginger-bread,  — 
A  bounteous  man  is  Mr.  Sled,  — 
For  prices  down  at  Hampton  Beach 
Are  very  far  beyond  his  reach. 

Then  he  takes  a  small  bottle  and  fills  it,  the  while 
Mrs.  Sled  and  her  sister  agreeably  smile, 
And  all  is  packed  snug,  and  away  o'er  the  road 
The  horse,  like  a  cynic,  making  light  of  his  load. 

0,  Hampton  Beach  !  no  power  of  speech 

Can  half  thy  wondrous  beauties  teach  ! 

Where  the  cool  air  brings  on  its  lively  wings 

A  generous  zest  for  the  victuals  and  things  ! 

Where  you  wash  in  the  spray,  —  or  rather  you  may, 

Should  your  inclination  "  cotton  "  that  way. 

(But  don't  do  like  him  who  decency  shocks, 

Undress  openly  down  on  the  rocks, 

Exposed  to  the  gaze  of  the  passers-by, 

Who  may  look  that  way  with  a  careless  eye ; 

But  go  into  the  houses,  and  put  on  thin  "  t rouses," 

And  then  you  can  bathe  with  sweet  hearts  or  spouses, 

Indulging  in  multitudinous  souses.) 

Where  the  force  of  the  spray  knocks  you  every  way, 

And  chance  is  afforded  to  pretty  things  say, 

And  to  show  off  brave,  as  you  daringly  lave 

In  the  rushing  whirl  of  the  incoming  wave  ! 

Arrived  at  the  spot,  out  Mr.  Sled  got, 
And  took  out  the  lot  as  quick  as  a  shot, 


164  A  PLEASURE  TKIP  TO  HA5IPTOX. 

And  down  on  the  grass  the  eatables  "  sot" 
The  old  horse,  tied  to  the  limb  of  a  tree, 
Thought  to  himself,  "  What  nincoms  are  we, 

To  come  so  far, 

With  jolt  and  jar, 

Just  for  to  go  for  to  see  the  sea !  "  * 

The  horse  did  n't  think  in  very  good  grammar, 
But  he  could  n't,  —  the  breakers  made  such  a  clamor. 

Now  Mr.  Sled  placidly  paces  the  sand, 

With  his  spouse  and  her  sister  on  either  hand ; 

While  the  urchins,  stockingless,  bare  to  the  knees, 

Are  revelling  high  in  those  "  Tails  of  the  Seas," 

Where  the  big  waves  come,  with  a  rush  and  roar, 

And  expend  themselves  on  the  trembling  shore, 

Then  rushing  and  roaring  back  again, 

As  if  to  play  with  the  children  they  'd  fain, 

The  little  ones  clapping  their  hands  in  fun, 

As  after  them  down  the  sands  they  run. 

"  Now  really,  my  dear,"  says  Mr.  Sled, 

"  If  'twere  n't  for  this  'ere  cold  in  my  head, 

I  'd  be  out  there  in  the  wink  of  an  eye, 

The  force  of  them  furious  waves  to  try, — 

I  can't  stand  still,  I  'm  tempted  so, 

I  'm  almost  persuaded,  —  I  vow  I  ivill  go." 

This  was  a  clincher ;  and  Mrs.  Sled, 

Like  a  sensible  woman,  ne'er  opened  her  head j 


A  PLEASURE   TKIP   TO   HAMPTON.  165 

He  knew  what  was  best, 
And  as  for  the  rest, 

They  neither  opinion  nor  warning  expressed, 
So  up  to  the  buggy  he  went  and  undressed ; 
Or  he  changed  his  garb  to  a  suitable  suit,  — 
'T  was  a  mystery  how  he  managed  to  do 't, — 
But  he  cast  his  slough,  and  from  heel  to  head 
A  comical  chicken  was  Mr.  Sled ! 

Stockingless,  hatless,  with  shirt  of  check, 
Tied  snugly  with  tape  around  his  neck, 
Pantaloons  blue,  with  a  patch  on  each  knee, 
And  fitting  as  tight  as  the  skin  could  be. 
Then  the  ladies  blushed,  and  a  laugh  did  smother, 
But  the  sister  blushed  much  more  than  the  other. 
To  tell  the  truth,  't  was  a  curious  fix 
To  be  seen  by  a  virgin  of  forty-six  ! 

Then  darted  he  boldly  the  beach  along, 

Then  dashed  he  wildly  the  waves  among, 

Then  stood  upright, 

That  a  wave  in  sight 

Might  fall  upon  him  in  all  its  might ! 

And  the  ladies  uttered  a  thrilling  screech, 

To  see  Mr.  S.  roll  over  the  beach, 

Like  —  I  don't  know  what  to  compare  him  to  — 

Perhaps  a  dolphin,  but  rather  more  blue. 

But  he  soon  appeared,  with  a  smile  most  bland, 

His  clothes  and  his  hair  well  covered  with  sand, 


166  A   PLEASURE  TBIP  TO  HAMPTON. 

And  expressed,  in  words  that  were  not  so  plain, 
The  thoughts  that  he  should  try  it  again. 

Then  the  ladies  —  Heaven  bless  them  !  — 

Said  they  'd  go  and  dress  them, 

And  see  how  the  waves  in  their  sport  would  caress  them, 

If  Mr.  Sled,  the  best  of  old  fellows, 

Would  promise  his  wife  he  would  n't  be  jealous. 

Now  two  such  brides, 

For  the  living  tides, 

No  one  saw,  Mr.  Sled  besides , 

You  wonder,  perhaps,  how  I  got  hold  of  it  — 

I  only  know  it,  as  Mr.  Sled  told  of  it. 

I  always  thought  the  dresses  were  shorter 

The  ladies  had  to  wear  into  the  water, 

But  theirs  were  as  long  and  as  black  as  soot, 

And  below  the  feet  about  a  foot. 

They  tied  a  white  cap  'neath  the  chin, 

With  every  sprig  of  a  curl  tucked  in,  — 

From  the  description,  I  should  agree  it 

Would  be  most  delectable  fun  to  see  it,  — 

And  such  a  trio  the  world  ne'er  knew 

As  Mr.  Sled  and  the  other  two  ! 

Then  down  all  three 

Went  into  the  sea, 

Laughing  with  most  ineffable  glee. 

Rolling  and  roaring  the  big  wave  came, 


A  PLEASURE  TRIP  TO   HAMPTON.  167 

Angry  and  high  did  it  rear  its  head, 
An  instant  only,  and  lo  !  the  dame 
And  the  spinster  both  were  hurled  in  shame, 

And  piled  on  top  of  Mr.  Sled  ! 

I  forgot  to  say  the  sky  grew  dark, 

A  fact  which  they  had  n't  seemed  to  mark, 

And  the  first  thing  that  made  her  look  on  high 

"Was  when  Mrs.  Sled  got  a  drop  in  her  eye. 

"  I  declare  it  rains  —  we  shall  get  wet  through ! 

Mr.  Sled,  what  upon  airth  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Why,  fretting,  my  dear,  won't  better  make  it  — 

I  think  we  'd  better  stand  and  take  it." 

So  their  garments  they  change  as  best  they  may, 

Each  one  looking  the  "  other  way," 

And  then,  to  avoid  the  rainy  weather, 

They  all  crawl  under  the  buggy  together, 

And  pass  round  among  them  the  eatables  nice, 

That  are  greedily  snatched  and  ate  in  a  trice. 

Then  Mr.  Sled  takes  from  some  secret  place, 

And  holds  up  to  view,  with  a  smiling  face, 

That  little  bottle  I  spoke  of  before,  — 

Holding  a  half  a  pint  or  more,  — 

And  with  a  nod  round,  a  health  to  denote, 

He  pours  a  small  portion  adown  his  own  throat, 

Then  smacking  his  lips,  his  joy  to  express, 

He  passes  the  liquid  the  others  to  bless ; 

They  take  it,  and  nod  back,  and  smilingly  look, 

But  they  thought  the  spinster  the  largest  share  took ; 

I  don't  say  it  was  so,  —  care  nothing  about  it,  — 

The  story  would  go  on  quite  well  without  it. 


168  A   PLEASURE   TRIP    TO   HAMPTON. 

No\v  it  rained  and  rained,  as  it  never  would  done, 

Till  it  leaked  through  the  buggy,  and  down  on  them  run ; 

Again  Mrs.  Sled  asked  what  they  should  do, 

And  the  children  and  spinster  looked  dismally  blue ; 

But  Mr.  S. 

Smiled  never  the  less, 

Nor  gave  a  sign  denoting  distress ; 

Indifferent  he  to  the  falling  tide, 

As  the  horse  who,  "  smoking,"  stood  outside. 

Their  patience  worn  out,  they  gained  their  taps, 

And  gathered  for  home  their  scattered  traps ; 

But  ere  they  started  did  Mr.  S. 

These  lines  of  reason  and  rhyme  express, 

Sealed  with  a  doughnut,  and  nailed  to  a  tree, 

That  wanderers  there  might  the  lesson  see  : 

"  A  rainy  day  at  Hampton  Beach 

Witt  test  aU  the  rules  philosophers  teach" 

MORAL. 

I  trust  that  this  story  the  moral  will  teach,  — 
Just  reckon  the  cost  when  you  go  to  the  beach, 
And  see  if  your  pockets  contain  the  tin, 
If  it  rains,  to  admit  you  the  hotel  within. 
Be  sure  that  you  have  it,  I  tell  you,  because 
To  be  there  without  it  you  're  a  cat  without  claws; 
Besides,  't  is  to  show  that  a  true  man  will  bear 
What  would  drive  many  others  to  utter  despair, 
And  look  at  this  truth-telling  ditty  you  've  read, 
And  practise  the  virtues  of  rare  Mr.  Sled. 


TO  THE  OLD   INKSTAND, 

ON    RECEIVING    A    PRESENT    OF    A    NEW    ONE. 

LONG  hast  thou  stood  by  me,  old  friend, 
But  our  companionship  must  end, 
For  Tompkins  doth  another  send, 

My  praise  to  wake ; 
You  must  depart,  and  I  intend 

New  stand  to  take. 

Full  many  an  hour  has  seen  me  skim 

For  ideas  round  thy  dingy  brim, 

And  sometimes,  answering  to  my  whim, 

I  've  drawn  them  out, 
As  anglers  draw  from  recess  dim 

The  speckled  trout. 

I  bless  thee  for  the  good  thou  'st  done, 
I  've  found  within  thy  depths  some  fun, 
A  joke  or  so  —  some  feeble  one  — 

Have  brought  to  view ; 
But  now  good-bye,  —  thy  ink  has  run,  — 

I  '11  try  the  new. 


170  TO   THE   OLD   IXKSTAXD. 

Depart,  old  cup,  your  rest  to  take, 

And  no  expostulation  make, 

My  new  resolve  you  cannot  shake, 

You  're  on  the  shelf; 
But  nothing  can  my  friendship  break, 

Old  thing  of  delf. 


SATURDAY  NIGHT; 

OH,  A  SOMEWHAT  "WORLDLY  VIEW  OF  A  HATHEK  SERIOUS  TIME,   WHERE 

THE  SOLACES   OF  EARTH  ARE  SUPPOSED  TO   CROWD  DOWN  MORE 

SPIRITUAL  INFLUENCES. 

WELL,  Saturday  has  come  again  — 
The  night  of  all  the  nights  is  here ; 

Kegarded  world-wide  as  the  pause 
In  labor's  wearisome  career. 

The  pleasing  sound  of  hard-earned  cash 
Has  lulled  the  soul  to  tranquil  rest ; 

The  "  ready  "  has  a  potent  charm 
To  ease  the  troubles  of  the  breast. 

Virtue  has  not  like  this  the  power 

To  soothe  the  heart  oppressed  by  woe ; 

Experience  tells  us  every  hour 
She  rarely  bides  with  men  below. 

Her  influence,  reckoned  as  the  balm 
To  cool  the  fever  of  earth's  ills, 

Can  never  boast  the  healing  charm 
That  rests  in  good  and  current  bills. 


172  SATURDAY   NIGHT. 

Their  rustling,  like  the  sound  of  leaves, 
In  the  bright,  bland  summer  night, 

The  eager,  care-worn  soul  receives, 
Rejoicing  in  a  new  delight. 

0,  how  the  days  in  turmoil  pass,  — 
A  thousand  pressing  trials  vex  us,  — 

Until  we  long,  in  vain,  alas ! 

To  flee  the  land,  and  go  to  —  Texas, — 

To  throw  the  weary  body  by, 

Or  cast  the  bitter  care  that  fills  us ; 

When,  like  an  answer  to  our  prayer, 
Comes  Saturday  along,  and  stills  us. 

But  many  are  the  means  and  ways 
This  resting  season  for  enjoying ; 

Some  lose  themselves  in  pleasure's  maze, 
And  some  the  hour  are  worse  employing. 

Some  drug  their  souls  in  Cyprian  bowers, 
Lured  on  to  death  by  venal  charms, 

And  cast  their  fortunes  and  their  powers 
To  the  false  trust  of  treacherous  arms. 

Happy  the  man  who  finds  his  home, 
The  rightful  spot  to  spend  the  season ; 

Whose  passions,  checked,  nor  left  to  roam, 
Are  made  subservient  to  reason. 


SATURDAY  NIGHT.  173 

Who  heedeth  not  the  proud  man's  sneer, 
Or  that  a  callous  world  may  flout  him  ; 

Well  pleased  his  children's  breath  to  hear, 
Harmonious  in  their  sleep  about  him. 

No  horrors  rack  his  sleeping  head, 

Based  on  hot  suppers,  pipes,  or  steaming ; 

But  radiant  angels  round  his  bed 
Infuse  bright  fancies  in  his  dreaming. 

Blest  goal !  to  which  the  toiling  heart 

Can  look  as  for  its  solace  given, 
And  claim  thee,  as  indeed  thou  art, 

The  happiest  night  of  all  the  seven  ! 


THE  LITTLE  GRAVE  REVISITED. 

FRIENDSHIP  seeks  the  little  grave ; 
Spring's  gay  glories  o'er  it  wave, 
Sunshine  rests  upon  the  scene, 
Freshly  bright,  the  grass  is  green. 

Here  summer  clouds  their  drops  may  shed, 
Like  tears,  above  this  lowly  bed ; 
And  zephyrs  whisper  notes  of  woe 
For  the  loved  one  who  sleeps  below. 

Here  flowers  may  their  fragrance  pour, 
Meet  offering  for  a  holy  hour, 
And  songs  of  birds,  in  cadence  clear, 
Seem  angel  tones  our  hearts  to  cheer. 

Friendship  seeks  the  little  grave, 
Autumn's  tokens  o'er  it  wave, 
Nature's  richest  hues  are  seen, 
Brightly  mingled  gold  and  green. 

No  tablet  marks  the  sacred  spot 

Our  pilgrim  steps  have  hereward  brought ; 

The  turfy  hillock  only  shows 

"Where  she,  the  loved,  doth  still  repose. 


THE  LITTLE  GKAVE  REVISITED.  175 

We  sighing  muse  upon  the  past, 
On  joys  too  pure  and  high  to  last, 
And  grief,  that  fell  with  chilling  blight 
When  her  bright  sun  went  down  in  night ;  — 

Faded,  as  fades  the  glow  of  day, 
Passed,  as  pass  spring  flowers  away,  — 
From  earth's  corruption  heavenward  fled, 
More  blest  than  we  who  mourned  her  dead. 

V 

Friendship  seeks  the  little  grave, 
Leafless  branches  o'er  it  wave,  — 
Winter's  snow  usurps  the  scene, 
No  more  now  the  grass  is  green. 

Returning  spring-time  shall  restore 
Its  genial  garniture  once  more ; 
Again  shall  brightest  verdure  wave 
Above  the  little  silent  grave. 

Unlike  the  season's  changeful  hue, 
Our  memory  shall  be  always  true  ; 
Forever  there  shall  fondly  dwell 
Her  image  that  we  loved  so  well. 

Still  we  '11  seek  the  little  grave, 
From  which  affection  could  not  save, 
And  grasp  the  hope  that  sundered  love 
Shall  reunited  be  above. 


A  SLEIGHING  SONG. 

OVER  the  snow,  over  the  snow, 
Away  we  go,  away  we  go  ! 

The  earth  gleams  white 

'Neath  the  stars  to-night, 

And  all  is  bright 

Above  and  below. 

Old  Care,  good-by !  old  Care,  good-by ! 
From  you  we  fly,  from  you  we  fly,  — 

As  if  on  wings, 

Our  fleet  steed  springs, 

And  the  welkin  rings 
With  our  joyous  cry. 

Gay  Mirth  is  here,  gay  Mirth  is  here, 
Our  hearts  to  cheer,  our  hearts  to  cheer  J 

While  on  we  glide, 

There 's  one  by  our  side, 

To  cheer  or  to  chide, 
Who  is  always  dear. 


A  SLEIGHING  SONG.  177 

Over  the  snow,  over  the  snow, 
Away  we  go,  away  we  go ! 

There  's  freedom  rare 

Abroad  in  the  air, 

Everywhere, 

Above  and  below. 


12 


THE   FEARFUL   OATH; 

OB,   SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  'WICKED   MB.   JONES. 

O,  A  wicked  man  was  'Bimelech  Jones, 

A  wickeder  one  was  rare,  was  rare ; 
At  lying  and  fibbing  "  he  made  no  bones," 

And  awfully  bad  he  'd  swear,  he  'd  swear. 

His  voice  was  harsh  as  a  north-west  gale, 

And  hoarse  and  loud  was  his  laugh,  his  laugh, 

Libations  oft,  in  the  foaming  ale, 

To  slake  his  thirst,  he  'd  quaff,  he  'd  quaff. 

His  step  was  a  bold  and  sturdy  tread, 

That  seemed  to  jar  where  it  prest,  it  prest ; 

And  those  familiar,  who  heard  it,  said 
They  knew  it  o'er  all  the  rest,  the  rest. 

Now,  rich  grew  'Bimelech  Jones  apace, 

Which  softened  his  sins  most  strange,  most  strange; 
Smiles  greeted  him  from  every  face, 

And  his  word  was  law  upon  'change,  on  change. 


THE   FEARFUL   OATH.  179 

And  a  haughty  man  was  'Bimelech  Jones, 
He  bowed  not  to  God  or  man,  or  man  ; 

And  once  he  swore,  by  his  blood  and  bones,  — 
'T  was  thus  his  strange  oath  ran,  it  ran  :  — 

That  Death  over  him  should  ne'er  prevail, 
However  hard  he  might  try,  might  try ; 

From  whatever  quarter  he  chose  to  assail, 

He,  'Bimelech  Jones,  would  n't  die,  would  n't  die. 

0,  how  the  flesh  crept  of  those  who  heard ! 

The  blood  in  their  veins  ran  cold,  ran  cold  j 
But  spoken  and  writ  was  the  awful  word, 

From  the  lips  of  the  bad  man  bold,  so  bold  ! 

Now,  time  flew  by,  and  the  fleet  years  shed 
Upon  'Bimelech  Jones  their  mark,  their  mark ; 

The  snows  of  age  rested  upon  his  head, 

And  his  vision  grew  dim  and  dark,  and  dark. 

But  still  did  he  vow  he  would  not  die, 

And  laughed  at  counsel  for  good,  for  good ; 

He  looked  on  high  at  the  bright  blue  sky, 

And  scoffed  at  it  there  as  he  stood,  as  he  stood. 

But  missed  was  he  when  the  summer  sun 
In  the  heavens  above  rode  high,  rode  high ; 

And  missed  was  he  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  night  in  its  gloom  drew  nigh,  drew  nigh. 


180  THE   FEARFUL   OATH. 

And  people  marvelled  that  he  came  not, 

As  was  his  wont,  to  mart,  to  mart ; 
That  he  should  forsake  that  favorite  spot, 

Where  to  cash  he  'd  coined  his  heart,  his  heart. 

They  sought  him  at  home  in  his  chamber  drear, 
And  they  opened  its  door  with  dread,  with  dread , 

And  their  hearts  quaked  then  with  an  awful  fear, 
As  they  stood  face  to  face  with  the  dead,  the  dead. 

Sate  'Bimelech  Jones  in  his  old  arm-chair, 
Death's  seal  on  his  brow  was  set,  was  set ; 

His  open  eyes  glared  with  a  stony  stare, 
As  if  life  were  biding  there  yet,  there  yet. 

But  death  had  triumphed,  —  the  vow  was  broke,  — 
Old  'Bimelech  Jones  was  dead,  was  dead ; 

But  he  fell  not  like  others  beneath  the  stroke, 

For  he  died  with  his  hat  on  his  head,  on  his  head. 

Sitting  there  his  table-side  by, 

Like  life,  his  papers  among,  among ; 
But  the  fire  had  all  gone  out  from  his  eye, 

And  silent  and  cold  was  his  tongue,  his  tongue. 

Then  Coroner  Smith  some  hard  dollars  took, 
And  jingled  them  well  in  his  ear,  his  ear  ; 

But  he  started  not,  though  loudly  they  shook, 
Which,  living,  he  'd  jump  to  hear,  to  hear. 


THE  FEARFUL   OATH.  181 

They  knew  that  the  spirit  had  left  the  clay, 
Not  to  wake  at  that  musical  chink,  that  chink ; 

His  ear,  so  alive  to  its  sound  alway, 

No  longer  its  music  would  drink,  would  drink ! 

Now,  each  night 't  is  said  that  'Bimelech  Jones 
Revisits  the  scene  where  he  died,  he  died, 

And  with  his  loud  knockings  and  piteous  groans 
The  people  are  sore  terrified,  terrified. 


THE   FIRST   ROBIN    OF   SPRING. 

I  AM  Kobin  the  First  of  the  kingdom  of  song, 

And  my  throne  is  the  bough  of  the  old  cherry-tree; 
The  zephyrs  of  spring  bear  my  mandates  along, 

And  the  gentle  and  good  are  all  subject  to  me. 
i 

Glad,  glad  is  the  home  near  whose  precincts  I  stay, 
A  grant  to  abide  I  repay  with  delight ; 

My  matin  shall  cheer  it  at  dawn  of  the  day, 

And  my  vesper  hymn  bless  it  at  coming  of  night. 

As  when  in  the  gay  bowers  of  Eden  't  was  sung, 
I  sing  to  the  world  my  melodious  strain ; 

And  the  heart  that  is  sad  the  earth's  discords  among 
May  turn,  with  my  notes,  back  to  Eden  again. 

I  am  Kobin  the  First  of  the  kingdom  of  song, 
My  sceptre  the  power  of  melody  sweet ; 

The  summer's  glad  months  my  rule  shall  prolong, 
And  its  flowery  trophies  be  laid  at  my  feet. 


DANIEL   WEBSTER   IS   NO   MORE! 

'T  WAS  Sabbath  morning,  still  and  clear, 
And  fair  uprose  the  ruddy  sun, 

When  burst  upon  our  startled  ear 
The  booming  of  the  mournful  gun. 

The  sound  of  fear  smote  every  breast, 
As,  echoing  round  from  hill  to  shore, 

It  broke  the  peaceful  Sabbath-rest, 
Proclaiming  Webster  was  no  more  ! 

No  more  !  and  has  that  mighty  mind 

Sunk  to  the  sleep  that  knows  no  dreams  ? 

Has  that  effulgent  sun  declined, 

That  rayed  our  country  with  its  beams  ? 

No  more !  and  shall  that  glowing  tongue, 
Which  thrilled  the  people  by  its  tone, 

When  through  their  heart  of  hearts  it  rung, 
Be  left  to  dark  decay  alone  ? 

And  must  that  glance  of  living  light, 
Whose  meteor  brightness  waked  our  fear, 

Fade,  all  obscured,  in  deepest  night, 
And  leave  us,  dazzled,  groping  here  ? 


184  "DANIEL  WEBSTEB  IS  NO  MORE!" 

No  more !     Not  so,  —  on  history's  page, 
Inscribed  in  characters  of  flame, 

A  mark  for  every  coming  age, 
Is  seen  the  glory  of  his  name. 

His  acts  shall  live,  his  voice  be  heard, 
In  mightier  cadence  than  of  old ; 

Its  eloquence  embalms  each  word, 

E'en  though  his  tongue  in  death  be  cold. 

The  mighty  soul  has  riven  the  clay 

That  bound  it  with  encumbering  chains  j 

The  earthly  form  may  know  decay, 
The  heavenly  principle  remains, 

To  guide  the  patriot  heart  aright, 

When  waves  of  harsh  discordance  rise, 

To  be  a  beacon  ever  bright 

When  angry  clouds  enshroud  our  skies. 

Then  say  not  "  Webster  is  no  more ;  "  — 
That  from  our  counsels  he  has  fled ;  — 

More  living  still  *  than  e'er  before, 

Is  he  —  the  mighty  —  mourned  as  dead  ! 

*«ISTILLLIVB!" 


A   RETROSPECTION. 

A  PANORAMIC  scope  of  years 

Is  seen  through,  retrospection's  glass, 
And  showers  of  tributary  tears 

Confirm  the  pictures  as  they  pass. 

Pass  ye,  the  joys  of  early  hours; 

Pass  ye,  the  friends  of  other  days  ; 
Pass  all,  who  strewed  my  path  with  flowers 

That  bloomed  in  youth's  primeval  rays ! 

Return,  the  distant  and  the  dead, 
The  voices  of  the  fruitful  past, 

The  buoyant  mind  long,  long  since  fled, 
The  hopes  too  bright  and  fair  to  last ! 

I  see  again  a  gladsome  hearth, 

An  echo  hear  of  distant  glee ; 
Bright  eyes  still  beam  with  love  and  mirth, 

And  turn  their  fondest  gaze  on  me  ! 

Stay,  vision  bright !  my  fainting  soul 
Would  leave  the  misty  future's  track, 

And  to  that  blessed  starting-goal 

Would  look  for  hope  and  solace  back. 


186  A   RETROSPECTION. 

Alas !  't  is  fading  as  I  gaze,  — 

The  pictures  have  in  beauty  flown,  • 

And  left,  for  memory  of  those  days, 
The  stern  reality  of  our  own. 

The  dust  of  many  mouldering  years 
Obscures  the  blessed  vision  sped, 

And  the  libation  of  our  tears 
Is  now  on  memory's  altar  shed. 


RUBBISH  ABOUT  AN  OLD  HOUSE. 

THE  moments  of  the  old  house  now  are  numbered, 

Pull  it  away ; 
The  space  is  wanted  it  so  long  hath  cumbered, 

For  use  to-day. 

Now  thundering  fall  each  olden  beam  and  rafter, 

Pull  them  away ; 
They  fall  amid  the  shouting  and  the  laughter 

Of  men  to-day. 

Now  fall  its  sides  —  the  inner  view  revealing 

Old  Time's  decay ; 
The  crumbling  plaster  and  worm-eaten  ceiling 

Dropping  away ! 

But,  as  we  gaze,  can  fancy  not  awaken 

Some  old  dream  sped, 
Peopling  these  rooms,  lone,  dreary  and  forsaken, 

With  forms  long  fled  ? 

Pass  now  before  us  faces  beauty  beaming,  — 

Childhood  and  youth, — 
Scenes  are  enacted  in  our  noon-day  dreaming, 

Vivid  as  truth. 


188  EUBBISH  ABOUT  AN   OLD  HOUSE. 

Alternate  changes  mark  the  just  presentment, 

Like  to  a  life ; 
Fiery  Ambition,  Hatred,  Love,  Contentment, 

Hope,  Peace  and  Strife ; 

All  are  portrayed,  —  the  funeral  and  the  bridal,  — 

From  woe  to  joy ; 
Fancy  still  plies  her  wand,  and,  never  idle, 

Yet  finds  employ. 

Age  after  age  sweeps  by  in  quick  succession, 

And,  as  we  scan, 
The  history  tell  throughout  the  long  procession ; 

The  doom  of  man. 

And  as  moves  by  each  fleeting  generation,  — 

Whate'er  his  fame,  — 
Is  read  the  truth  that  man  in  every  station 

Is  still  the  same. 

As  the  old  house  falleth  when  its  place  is  needed, 

So  falleth  man, 
Like  an  old  ruin  by  the  world  unheeded  — 

'T  is  nature's  plan. 

A  grander  fabric  springs  upon  his  ruin, 

Raised  from  the  clod, 
Taking  eternal  durance  with  renewing,  — 

The  builder  GOD. 


BUM   REMINISCENCES; 

OB,    THE   OLD    TOPER    WAXING    PATHETIC. 

LET  us  speak  of  times  that  were,  Jim, 
'  Of  hours  that  used  to  pass, 
Noted  by  other  glasses,  Jim, 

Besides  the  hour-glass ; 
Brim  full  were  they  with  pleasure,  Jim, 

Bright  joy  shone  in  our  cup, 
And  greedy  we  for  bliss,  Jim, 

Soon  drank  the  jewel  up. 

0,  well  do  we  remember,  Jim, 

The  bottles  in  a  row, 
The  lemons  dotted  in  between,  — 

A  fascinating  show ; 
The  counters  filled  with  glasses,  Jim, 

Decanters  marshalled  bold, 
"With  the  cocktails  and  the  juleps, 

And  the  punches  hot  and  cold. 

How  the  diamond  drop  of  mirth,  Jim, 

Stood  beaming  on  the  lip, 
And  how  the  fun  would  sparkle,  Jim, 

As  we  'd  the  nectar  sip  ! 


190  RUM   REMINISCENCES. 

The  songs  we  gayly  sung,  Jim, 

The  stories  that  we  told, 
Have  lost  the  charm  they  used  to  have, 

Now  we  are  growing  old. 

With  blinded  eyes  we  strayed,  Jim, 

Nor  dreamt  of  danger  nigh,  — 
That  every  draught  concealed  a  shaft, 

And  each  cup  nursed  a  sigh  ; 
That  halcyon  moments  fleeing,  Jim,^ 

To  us,  then  young  and  brave, 
Were  naught  but  subtle  quicksands,  Jim, 

Where  we  might  find  a  grave. 

A  thrill  comes  o'er  the  sailor,  Jim, 

When  morning  brings  to  light 
Some  danger  dread  just  passed,  Jim, 

Concealed  within  the  night ; 
And  can  we  never  feel,  Jim, 

In  view  of  dangers  past, 
A  gratitude  that  we  were  spared 

Destruction's  sweeping  blast  ? 

The  time  to  come  looks  bright,  Jim, 

No  cloud  obscures  the  day  ; 
The  evil  spirits,  once  our  bane, 

We  've  banished  far  away  ! 
The  chain  is  broke,  —  we  're  free,  Jim, 

From  bonds  that  bound  us  sore, 
And  joy  we  feel  we  never  felt 

In  old  rum  days  of  yore. 


THE   MINER'S   RETURN. 

AH,  who  shall  tell  of  the  miner's  thought, 
As  his  native  land  rises  before  him, 

Her  mountains  in  mist  of  the  distance  wrought, 
And  her  atmosphere  floating  o'er  him ! 

He  has  toiled  in  hope  of  a  glad  return 
To  bless  whom  his  parting  gave  sorrow ; 

And  his  soul  with  enkindled  hope  doth  yearn, 
As  he  thinks  on  the  n^ar  to-morrow. 

The  night  settles  down  on  the  ocean  wide, 
And  the  light-house  fire  is  beaming, 

And  wild  as  the  ocean  and  swift  as  its  tide 
Are  the  dreams  the  miner  is  dreaming. 

Fond  fancy  bringeth  a  bright  array 

Of  joyful  faces  near  him, 
A  father's  blessing,  and  the  gladdening  play 

Of  a  mother's  smile,  to  cheer  him ; 

A  wife's  embrace,  and  the  smile  and  tear 

That  speak  a  blissful  sadness, 
And  the  gleesome  shout  of  children  dear, 

In  childhood's  boisterous  gladness. 


192  THE  MINER'S  RETUKN. 

And  the  welcome  grasp  of  friendly  hands, 

And  friendly  voices,  greet  him ; 
Each  well-known  tree  by  the  way-side  stands, 

Like  an  old  friend  out  to  meet  him. 

No  adverse  cloud  broods  o'er  the  scene, 

With  ills  portent  to  lower, 
But  a  bow  of  hope  spans  the  sky  serene, 

As  might  follow  a  golden  shower. 

And  golden  towers  in  golden  light 

Shine  rich  in  golden  glory, 
And  golden  spires  like  fingers  write 

In  gold  the  golden  story. 

And  golden  founts,  with  ceaseless  play, 

Surpass  that  fountain  olden, 
Whose  waters  broke  in  golden  spray 

On  sands  whose  grains  were  golden. 

And  golden  bright  are  the  leaves  of  the  trees, 
That  with  golden  blossoms  mingle, 

And  the  song  of  the  birds  and  hum  of  the  bees 
Have  a  sort  of  golden  jingle. 

And  he  laughed  aloud  in  his  gorgeous  dream, 

Unmarred  by  doubt  or  sorrow, 
And  far  away  to  his  waking  did  seem 

That  near  approaching  morrow. 


THE  MINER'S  KETUBN.  193 

It  dawns,  and  'neath  the  golden  sun 

Shine  rock,  and  tree,  and  tower ; 
The  long-wished  goal  is  nearly  won, 

His  home  he  will  see  in  an  hour. 

And  then  perchance  will  his  ardent  hope 

Come  lost  in  a  blest  fruition, 
And  as  bright  a  day  of  promise  ope 

As  e'er  graced  his  sleeping  vision. 

But  sad  was  the  story  that  met  his  ear  : 

His  parents  by  death  were  stricken, 
And  his  children  in  damps  of  poverty  drear 

Like  blighted  plants  did  sicken ; 

And  their  hollow  eyes  glared  on  his  anguished  face, 
As  they  told  the  tale  how  their  mother 

Had  left  them  long  the  heirs  of  disgrace, 
And  fled  away  with  another. 

Then  the  golden  dream  was  all  dispelled, 

And  he  bowed  his  head  in  sorrow, 
And  wished  that  an  ocean  grave  had  withheld 

That  much  yearned  for  to-morrow. 
13 


CITY   PHILOSOPHY;    OR,   BEES  AND 
BIRDS   TS.   BUGS. 

How  to  make  one's  self  happy  by  adopting  the  principle  of  Sir 
Reynard,  of  sour-grape  memory,  in  anticipation  of  the  time  when 
pecuniary  obstruction  shall  debar  the  humble  from  rural  delights. 

POETS  may  tell  us  of  flower-clad  bowers 

And  shady  groves  and  halcyon  hours ; 

Of  quiet  nooks 

And  babbling  brooks, 

And  simple  fish  to  be  caught  with  hooks ; 

Of  dreams  beneath  some  wide-spread  tree, 

By  streams  that  loiteringly  seek  the  sea, 

Hugging  their  banks  with  gurgling  song, 

And  kissing  each  as  they  move  along,  — 

They  may  say 

You  can  stay 

The  live-long  day 

(That  is,  if  you  have  a  turn  that  way), 

Beside  some  little  fresh-water  bay, 

And  see  o'er  its  surface  the  dragon-fly  play, 

And  list  to  the  mill  sounding  far  away, 

Or  the  farmer-boys  singing  while  making  hay, 

Or  the  bees  as  they  rifle  the  flowers  gay, 

Or  the  birds  on  the  spray, 

As  they  tune  their  lay, 

Shaded  by  trees  from  the  warm  sun's  ray ; 


CITY  PHILOSOPHY.  195 

They  may  by  their  story 

Make  each  nymph  of  the  dairy 
A  being  all  glory, 

An  angel  or  fairy ; 
With  eyes  brightly  shining 
As  rare  diamonds  glow, 
With  curls  gayly  twining 

O'er  neck  white  as  snow ; 
With  grace  in  her  form, 

And  health  in  her  cheek ; 
With  heart  beating  warm, 
Each  act  doth  bespeak  ; 
A  creature  all  heaven, 
With  no  taint  of  sin, 
A  thing  to  earth  given, 

'T  were  heaven  to  win  ; 
They  may  sing,  if  they  please, 
Of  the  teeming  trees, 
Yielding  their  fruits  to  the  farmer's  will, 
Of  the  sports  of  the  field, 
Which  rare  fun  yield, 
Where  the  cracking  gun  is  heard  "  to  kill." 
They  may  sum  up  the  joys  of  a  country  life, 
They  may  rail  at  the  city  's  noise  and  strife, 
Or  scenes  of  the  town  with  trouble  rife ; 

BUT: 

There  are  odious  bugs  in  airy  bowers, 
They  dwell  in  the  trees  and  dwell  in  the  flowers ; 
There  are  bugs  in  the  earth,  there  are  bugs  in  the  air, 
There  are  bugs  in  the  water  and  everywhere ; 


196  CITY   PHILOSOPHY. 

You  may  throw  yourself  on  the  ground  along, 

To  list  to  the  fife-bird's  glorious  song ; 

You  may  hear  it  and  dream,  and  dream  as  you  hear, 

And  wake  up,  at  last,  with  a  bug  in  your  ear ; 

You  may  roam,  if  you  will,  by  the  crystal  brook, 

To  tempt  the  fish  with  deceiving  hook, 

You  may  drag  your  line  from  morn  till  night, 

And  be  oftener  getting  bit  than  a  bite  ; 

You  may  plunge  in  depths  of  the  forest  shade, 

You  may  mount  the  hill  or  roam  the  glade, 

In  bush  or  in  brake,  in  dingle  or  dell, 

There  are  bugs,  there  are  bugs,  more  than  pen  can  tell ; 

And  the  rural  Venus  warmly  portrayed, 

In  colors  drawn  from  the  poet's  heart, 
May  prove,  at  best,  but  some  country  maid 

Driving  her  father's  market-cart, 
With  cheeks  burnt  red  by  a  summer  sun, 

With  coarse  brown  hair  and  freckled  brow, 
Whose  stalwart  arm  might  a  furrow  run 

The  live-long  day  behind  the  plough. 
But  were  it  not  so,  —  were  every  grace 

As  vivid  as  he  describes  in  his  fair,  — 
'T  is  something  peculiar  to  no  clime  or  place, 

But  woman's  own  attribute  everywhere. 

Through  the  forest  and  over  the  hill 

You  drag  your  gun  from  morn  .till  night, 

Sometimes  seeing  a  bird  to  kill 

That  is  less  in  danger  from  shot  than  fright ; 


CITY   PHILOSOPHY.  197 

Wading  the  brook  and  washed  to  the  knees, 

Laden  with  multitudinous  freight ; 
Your  game-bag  plenished  with  bread  and  cheese, 

Mingling  in  with  worms  for  bait ! 
There 's  an  invite  comes  from  the  cooling  west, 
That  calls  to  you  'neath  the  trees  to  rest ; 
You  bare  your  brow  to  the  genial  air, 
And  inhale  the  perfumes  wafted  there, 

You  dream  not  of  woe, 

There 's  a  heavenly  glow 

Cast  all  over  the  world  below ; 
When  a  humming  is  heard,  and  with  terrible  din 
Mosquitos  their  afternoon  meal  begin, 
And  the  way  they  pick  at  you  is  a  sin  ! 
Punching  your  body  with  myriad  holes,  — 
In  vain  is  your  cry,  "  Get  out,  bless  your  souls!  " 

They  heed  no  more 

Your  cries  so  sore 

Than  they  would  if  a  sucking  lamb  should  roar ! 
You  mark  just  now  the  waning  sun, 
And  shoulder  again  your  trusty  gun  ; 
Bit  upon  face  and  bit  upon  neck, 
What  can  your  homeward  speed  now  check  ? 
You  traverse  a  mile,  and  recall  to  mind 
You  have  left  your  game-bag  far  behind  ; 
Then  back  you  plod  with  a  weary  pace, 
Perhaps  like  a  school-boy  "l»se  the  place," 
Finding  the  bag  beneath  the  trees, 
But  the  black  ants  eating  your  bread  and  cheese. 


198  CITY  PHILOSOPHY. 

Homeward  bound !  homeward  bound ! 
Earnestly  hoped  and  blessed  when  found. 
Give  me  the  city,  —  the  noisy  mart,  — 
The  cry  of  the  man  with  the  charcoal-cart ; 
The  oysterman's  note  when  night  is  still, 
More  plaintive  than  song  of  whippoorwill ; 
Sleeping  at  morn  as  my  pleasure  incline ; 
Dining  at  two,  as  a  Christian  should  dine; 
Sitting  up  an  hour  or  so  after  tea,  — 
Give  me  these,  if  you  please, 
And  a  country  life  go  to  others  for  me. 


THE   ANTIQUATED   CHAPEAU, 

I  REMEMBER  —  I  remember  — 

That  Hat,  now  worn  and  dim, 
When  glossy  shone  its  silky  crown, 

And  eke  its  curling  rim  ; 
When  Sundays  donned  it  glory  shed 

Upon  the  suit  below, 
The  glancing  sunshine  in  its  sheen 

Received  an  added  glow. 

I  remember  —  I  remember  — 

When  to  the  house  't  was  brought, 
The  wily  jokes  that  passed  around 

In  asking  who  was  caught  ; 
The  repartee  that  darted  back ; 

The  answer  prompt  and  pat ; 
The  full  receipt  —  stop  —  was  it  so  ? 

I  can't  remember  that. 

I  remember  —  I  remember  — 
When  first  it  'gan  to  fade, 

To  save  it  from  a  fast  decay 
The  efforts  that  were  made ; 


200  THE   ANTIQUATED   CHATEAU. 

The  ink  put'  on  the  browning  spots, 
And  ironed  once  a  week ;  — 

But  fading  beauty  spoke  more  plain 
Than  tongue  could  ever  speak. 

I  remember  —  I  remember  — 

When  last  that  hat  was  worn, 
Its  top  was  rusty  at  the  verge, 

Its  rim  was  sadly  torn  ; 
Its  polished  sheen  had  vanished  all 

That  charmed  in  other  days  — 
Its  crown  a  continent  of  felt, 

Indented  round  with  bays. 

I  remember — I  remember  — 

What  parsons  used  to  say, 
When  I  attended  to  their  calls, 

That  all  things  must  decay  ; 
Then  let  me  wisdom  gain  from  thee, 

My  old  hat  on  the  shelf, 
And  heed  the  lesson  thou  dost  teach,  • 

I  must  decay  myself. 


OLD    TIMES. 

TO  JOHN  T.  CHESLEY,  ESQ.,  OP  LOWELL. 

I  DAKE  say  you  remember,  John, 

Back  twenty  years  and  more, 
When  we  were  young  and  jolly,  John, 

On  old  Cocheco's  shore  ; 
When  our  paths  were  bright  and  fair,  John, 

And  the  hours  most  deftly  sped, 
With  our  hearts  as  free  from  care,  John, 

As  the  breezes  round  our  head. 

And  don't  you  sometimes  see,  John, 

Full  many  a  scene  and  face, 
That  memory,  true  to  life,  John, 

Restores  with  pristine  grace  ; 
The  smiles  of  old  companions,  John, 

The  music  of  their  voice, 
That  through  the  damps  of  many  years 

Yet  make  your  heart  rejoice  ? 

Dost  ever  roam  in  fancy,  John, 

Amid  those  dark  old  woods  ? 
Dost  ever  lave  in  wantonness, 

Within  Cocheco's  floods  ? 


202  OLD  TIMES. 

Dost  hear  the  booming  dam,  John, 
At  evening,  calm  and  still, 

Or  the  dashing  of  the  busy  wheel 
That  turns  the  droning  mill  ? 

Dost  remember  Log-Hill  spring,  John, 

Whose  waters  were  so  sweet, 
That  poured  its  treasures  lovingly 

In  crystal  at  our  feet, 
While  the  birds  sang  in  the  pines,  John, 

A  sweet  and  mellow  strain, 
That  older  ears  in  after  years 

May  never  hear  again  ? 

Ah,  halcyon  days  were  those,  John, 

Our  lines  how  golden  bright ! 
With  not  an  ill  to  vex  us,  John, 

And  not  a  care  to  fright, 
We  laughed  the  hours  away,  John, 

In  unconcern  of  fate, 
Nor  saw  how  near  the  Boy's  domain 

Bordered  on  Man's  estate. 

I  turn  my  eyes  oft  back,  John, 

And  busy  memory  true, 
In  answer  to  my  call,  John, 

Brings  old  scenes  to  my  view ; 
I  see  myself  among  them,  John, 

So  young  and  blithe  and  free, 
Then  view  myself  as  time  has  made,  — 

I  'm  quite  another  me. 


OLD  TIMES.  203 

I  meet  with  old-time  friends,  John, 

With  whom  we  daily  met, 
Whose  smiles  endeared  the  passing  hours, 

But  me  they  now  forget ; 
They  are  gray  and  weary  men,  John, 

Their  cheerfulness  all  spent, 
And,  worldly  given,  grope  through  life, 

In  adding  cent  to  cent. 

But  there  are  true  ones  too,  John, 

That  stick  through  weal  and  woe, 
Whose  friendship  waits  not  fortune's  breeze 

A  favoring  gale  to  blow, 
Whose  generous  hearts  are  ready,  John, 

To  hold  us  in  embrace, 
Our  names  enrolled  in  letters  there 

That  Time  may  not  efface. 

Alas !  the  changing  world^  John ; 

Old  scenes  make  way  for  new ; 
The  builder's  hand  has  closed  our  paths, 

Or  railroads  run  them  through  ; 
But  let  us  thank  our  stars,  John, 

That  active  Fancy  teems, 
And  what  time's  rubber  may  destroy 

We  may  restore  in  dreams. 


A   RHYME    ABOUT    A   BABY. 

ONE  Saturday  night 

(I  forget  me  quite 

Whether  't  was  stormy,  or  whether  't  was  bright), 
As  Mr.  Haiz  and  his  good  wife  sat, 

Somewhat  later  than  was  their  way, 
Talking  o'er  about  this  and  that 

Of  what  had  happened  throughout  the  day,  — 
A  little  domestic  council  of  two, 
Discussing  as  gravely  as  cabinets  do, 
Laying  out  plans  for  coming  days ;  — 
For  a  prudent  man  was  Solomon  Haiz, 
And  his  wife,  MUL  Haiz,  search  the  town  all  around, 
A  prudenter  woman  could  n't  be  found. 

They  had  just  arrived  at  the  dreamy  state, 
And  for  bed  were  about  to  adjourn  debate, 
For  the  hour  was  getting  rather  late, 

When  the  door-bell  rang 

With  a  terrible  clang, 

And  upon  their  taps  the  Haizes  sprang. 

Now,  a  bolder  man  than  Solomon  Haiz 
Cannot  be  found  in  these  latter  days, 


A  RHYME   ABOUT   A   BABY.  205 

But  he  trembled  at  the  din  ;  ' 
He  turned  the  matter  in  his  mind 
Of  what  or  whom  he  there  should  find, 

And  whether  to  let  them  in. 

Then  he  seized  the  lamp  —  to  the  door  he  went  — 

"  Who  's  there  ?  "  thrice  shouted,  with  all  his  might ; 
No  answer  returned  —  his  patience  was  spent  — 

He  opened  the  door,  and  looked  out  on  the  night ; 
Boldly  outward  he  thrust  the  light, 
But  there  was  n't  a  moving  thing  in  sight ; 

The  lamp's  bright  glare, 

In  the  midnight  air, 

Cast  horrible  shadows  here  and  there, 
And  worse  shape  he  'd  never  seen  before 
Than  his  own,  revealed  on  his  half-closed  door. 

He  looked  out  and  looked  around, 

And  up  and  down  with  eager  eye, 
When  glimmering  white  below,  on  the  ground, 

At  his  out-thrust  foot  did  a  basket  lie. 


The  door  slammed  to  with  a  terrible  din, 
Waking  the  house  with  dire  alarms, 

When  Mr.  Haiz,  to  his  wife's  amaze, 

Walked  straight  in  with  a  babe  in  his  arms  ! 

Now  a  scene  occurred,  as  a  player  might  say, 
'T  would  require  an  able  pen  to  portray, 
For  things  did  look  in  a  serious  way ; 


206  A  KHYME  ABOUT   A   BABY. 

For  Mrs.  Haiz, 

With  her  face  in  a  blaze, 

Seemed  struck  mute  with  a  fit  of  amaze ; 

While  poor  Mr.  Haiz 

Looked  forty  ways, 

Unable  to  meet  her  fiery  gaze. 

But 't  was  none  of  his,  he  vowed  by  his  gods, 
And  why  it  was  left  there  he  could  n't  tell ; 

The  dame  replied  by  incredulous  nods, 

And  a  look  whose  meaning  he  knew  full  well. 

Then  zealously  opened  a  new  debate, 

And  long  to  agree  they  were  quite  unable ; 

He  could  n't  hold  out,  for  the  subject's  weight 
Made  Mr.  Haiz  move  it  might  lie  on  the  table. 

Then  they  unpinned  the  wrapper  to  look  at  the  child 

And,  as  for  conquest,  the  little  elf 
Looked  up  at  the  lady  and  sweetly  smiled, 

Till  she  grew  good-natured  in  spite  of  herself. 

Now,  a  chick  nor  child  the  Haizes  had  not, 
Although  they  had  room  and  plenty  of  tin ; 

And  anger  gave  way  to  a  gentler  thought, 

And  they  took  the  young  night-coming  stranger  in 

The  next  day  being  Sunday,  to  church  they  went, 
And  the  babe  was  christened  Abijah  Haiz, 

And  the  little  waif  thus  heaven  sent 
Was  a  comfort  to  them  all  their  days. 


A  RHYME  ABOUT  A  BABY.  207 

Whether  right  or  not  right, 

On  that  Saturday  night, 
To  leave  the  baby  where  he  might  spy  him, 

Every  one  says 

That  Solomon  Haiz 
Acted  just  like  a  father  by  him. 


THE   BAR-KEEPER'S   DREAM. 

'T  WAS  midnight  in  the  bar-room  dim, 

The  revellers  had  flown, 
The  bar-man  looked  around  with  fear 

To  find  himself  alone  ; 
An  icy  chill  lay  at  his  heart 

He  ne'er  before  had  known. 

He  stood  within  his  silent  bar, 

He  felt  the  dismal  gloom ! 
The  lamps'  dull  glare  cast  here  and  there 

Dim  shadows  round  the  room ; 
His  spirit  felt  a  sense  as  sad 

As  if  't  were  in  a  tomb. 

And  thought,  which  in  the  hour  of  glee 

He  never  would  allow, 
And  conscience,  with  its  awful  voice, 

Long  hushed,  he  well  knew  how, 
Both  came  upon  him  in  that  hour, 

And  busy  were  they  now. 


THE  BAR-KEEKER'S  DREAM.  209 

Old  days  of  innocence  and  peace 

Came  vividly  to  view, 
And  scenes  of  home,  and  love,  and  joy, 

His  early  childhood  knew, 
Ere  greed  of  gain  had  drawn  his  soul 

From  love  of  good  and  true.  » 

The  homestead,  with  its  glad  delight, 

The  school-house  on  the  hill, 
The  church  whose  spire  rose  high  and  white, 

The  brook  which  turned  the  mill,  — 
As  erst  they  lived  within  his  sight, 

He  saw  them  plainly  still. 

And  early  love's  sweet  garlands  shone 

His  dreamy  thoughts  among ; 
He  heard  the  same  familiar  tone 

That  young  affection  sung, 
When  buoyant  hope  his  horizon 

With  bright  creations  hung. 

He  marked  the  change  —  alas !  the  change  — 

When,  leaving  all  for  gold, 
He  quenched  the  fires  of  early  truth 

With  lust's  fell  waters  cold, 
And  innocence,  a  thing  of  trade, 

Was  bargained  for  and  sold. 

Then  conscien«e,  with  a  wand  of  fire, 
Brought  his  life-deeds  to  view,  — 
14 


210  THE  BAR-KEEPER'S  DREAM. 

Portrayed  them  to  his  blenching  gaze 

In  colors  strong  and  true, 
And  fancies  of  appalling  shape 

Across  his  vision  flew : 

•         The  squalid  forms  of  blasted  ones, 

The  hollow,  sunken  eyes, 
Which  beamed  of  old  like  radiant  suns, 

And  cheeks  of  healthful  dyes, 

•*  i 

Grown  haggard  now  as  hideous  things 
That  from  the  grave  might  rise. 

And  where  the  light  of  genius  shone, 

And  reason's  blessed  ray, 
That  light  was  quenched,  that  ray  had  gone, 

The  curse  now  held  its  sway ; 
0  woe !  the  peril  of  that  one 

Who  thus  that  soul  could  slay ! 

And  maiden  innocence  and  ruth, 
That  once  bloomed  but  to  bless, 

Whose  smile  was  fraught  with  love  and  truth, 
Angelic  scarcely  less, 

Sunk,  sunk  beneath  the  tempter's  wfles, 
To  utter  wretchedness ! 

And  dire  distress  on  every  side, 
And  squalor,  death  and  need, 

And  homes  of  happiness  denied, 
And  hearts  that  hourly  bleed, 


THE  BAR-KEEPER'S  DREAM.  211 

And  little  orphan  hands  upraised, 
In  timid  suppliance  plead. 

And  sounds  of  woe  rise  on  the  air  — 

Sounds  that  he  heeds  full  well : 
The  mother's  accents  of  despair, 

The  reeling  madman's  yell, 
The  murdered  victim's  dying  prayer, 

The  murderer's  funeral  knell. 

His  eyes  and  ears  drank  in  the  whole, 

Chill  grew  his  sluggish  blood, 
The  while  remorse  poured  o'er  his  soul 

An  overwhelming  flood, 
His  hands  he  wrung  in  dismal  dole, 

And  trembled  as  he  stood. 

Ah,  sad  the  contrast  which  he  drew 

Betwixt  his  now  and  then, 
As  memory  recalled  the  view 

Of  those  bright  days  again  ; 
A  devil  now  he  seemed,  to  blast 

And  scourge  his  fellow-men. 

And  conscience  whispered  in  his  ear  — 

"  This  work  of  thine  regard ; 
In  sin's  broad  field  for  many  a  year 

Thou  'st  labored  well  and  hard ; 
For  all  that  thou  hast  rendered  here 

Shall  come  a  meet  reward !  " 


212  THE  BAR-KEEPER'S  DREAM. 

And  then  he  vowed  a  fearful  vow, 
Wrung  forth  with  many  a  groan, 

That  through  his  life  for  evil  past 
He  'd  struggle  to  atone ; 

He  waked  —  the  room  was  still  and  dark, 
And  he  was  all  alone. 


THE   SEEDY   OLD    GENTLEMAN. 

Something  similar,  fully  as  comprehensible,  but  not  .quite  as  good 
as  the  "Ancient  Mariner." 

ACROSS  my  way,  for  many  a  day,  The  p°et  seeth  a 

I  've  seen  that  old  man  pass ;  seedy  individual, 

He  seemeth  tough,  and  poor  enough,  ^a  greatly  com- 

And  like  to  be,  alas  !  miserateth  him. 

I  '11  seize  my  friend  who  here  doth  wend, 

To  learn  his  story  drear  ;  He  would  hear  his 

I  '11  chain  my  friend,  unto  the  end,  8tory- 

Like  the  Ancient  Marinere. 


My  friend  draws  nigh,  I  catch  his  eye, 
He  falls  within  its  spell ;  — 

See  yon  man  old,  I  would  be  told 
How  he  from  fortune  fell. 


His  friend  falleth 
beneath  the  influ 
ence  of  a  spell. 


He  hears  me  speak  —  pale  grows  his  cheek, 

His  lips  are  deadly  white  ; 
His  brows  are  knit,  his  teeth  are  set, 

His  eye  is  icy  bright. 


It3  effect  on 


214 


THE   SEEDY   OLD   GENTLEMAN. 


"  The  bank  will  close,  my  chance  I  '11  lose, 

My  note  they  will  protest ;"  He    ******  *»» 

But  still  with  my  look,  like  fish  with  hook,  protest  of  a  note. 

I  held  him  in  unrest. 


"  'T  is  nearly  two  —  what  shall  I  do  ? 

My  note  they  will  protest ! 
On  'change  my  name  will  be  a  shame, 

A  byword  and  a  jest." 

But  by  my  spell  I  bade  him  tell 

That  old  man's  seedy  fate  ; 
"  You  shall  not  go  till  this  I  know, 

Though  you  were  ten  times  late." 

Then  spoke  that  man,  while  tremors  ran 
Along  his  spell-bound  frame,  — 

"  His  story  well  I  'd  like  to  tell, 
His  fortune  and  his  name  ; 

"  But  this  pray  hear,  nor  be  severe, 
Though  I  should  thwart  your  plan, 

I  cannot  tell  his  story  well,  — 
I  do  not  know  the  man." 


The  note  still  up 
permost. 


His  tormentor  in 
exorable. 


He  speaketh,  and 
what  he  did  say. 


Does  n't  know 
anything  about 
the  old  covey. 


THE   PRINTER'S   SORROWS   ENDED 

OH  THE  DEATH   OF   S.   J.   BELCHER,  PRINTEB. 

WHEN  the  summer  beamed  in  its  beauty, 

That  season  of  joy  and  mirth, 
The  cold,  cold  hand  of  sickness 

Was  laid  on  a  child  of  earth : 
A  nobler  spirit  ne'er  blest  a  friend, 

Or  gladdened  a  household  hearth. 

The  fair  seasons  waned  and  faded, 

The  dreary  winter  came, 
And  day  by  day  saw  pale  away 

His  life's  dull,  glimmering  flame  ; 
Saw,  too,  expire  the  cherished  hopes 

Of  friends  in  deed  and  name. 

Faithfully  they  watched  beside  him  ; 

His  eye  so  brightly  beamed 
With  the  fire  of  old  intelligence, 

So  hopefully  it  gleamed, 
The  approach  of  the  dread  Destroyer 

Far  off  they  fondly  deemed. 


216  THE  PRINTER'S  SORROWS  ENDED. 

But  his  step  in  the  silent  chamber 

Was  soon  too  plainly  known, 
And  the  object  of  a  thousand  loves 

Was  claimed  as  his  alone  ; 
The  pulse  was  stilled,  and  the  eye  was  closed 

Of  late  so  bright  that  shone. 

Then  friends  met  round  the  unheeding  clay, 

With  sorrow,  to  bid  adieu 
To  the  loved  one,  to  be  laid  away 

Forever  from  their  view  ; 
And  many  a  heart  beat  wofully 

For  the  loss  of  a  friend  so  true. 

And  many  a  tear  from  woman's  eyes 
Fell  warm  for  the  early  dead, 

Who,  far  from  his  home,  in  a  stranger  land, 
Had  bowed  to  doom  his  head ; 

They  had  ministered  to  him  hopefully, 
Till  every  hope  had  fled ; 

Bending  o'er  him  at  midnight  deep, 
And  again  in  the  day's  broad  light, 

Tenderly,  most  tenderly,  marking 
The  approach  of  his  mortal  night, 

And  smoothing  his  path  to  its  portals  dark, 
As  woman  only  might. 

The  cold  snow  crisped  beneath  our  tread 
As  we  bore  his  form  away, 


THE  PRINTER'S  SORROWS  ENDED.  217 

In  the  dreary  chambers  of  the  grave 

To  moulder  to  decay, 
To  be  known  no  more,  save  in  memory, 

Till  the  resurrection  day. 

And  many  a  snow  and  rain  shall  beat 

O'er  his  unconscious  dust, 
But  the  eye  of  faith  rises  upward 

On  the  pinions  of  its  trust, 
And  sees  the  enfranchised  spirit 

In  its  home  amid  the  just. 


THE    WITCH    OF    LYNN: 

OR,   A   GOOD   MAXT  TEARS  AGO. 

"  Go  not  to-day  on  the  broad,  deep  sea, 

And  trust  not  your  shallow  bark, 
For  well  I  know  a  storm  there  will  be, 

Ere  another  night  grows  dark ; 

"And  the  surges  will  dash  your  cold  corse  o'er, 

And  the  shark-fish  claim  its  own, 
Or,  mangled  and  stark,  on  a  rugged  shore 

Will  your  ghastly  form  be  thrown  ! 

"The  foul  bird  will  peck  out  your  jet-black  eyes, 
And  the  loud  winds  laugh  through  your  hair; 

Beware,  beware  how  my  words  you  despise, 
Or  how  you  my  anger  dare  !  " 

0,  the  witch  of  Lynn  is  a  fearful  wife, 
And  well  will  she  keep  her  word ; 

And  he  must  bear  a  thrice-charmed  life 
Who  has  ever  her  anger  stirred. 

The  young  man  launched  his  boat  on  the  tide, 
And  dashed  along  through  the  spray, 

The  bright  waves  gleaming  on  every  side, 
In  the  glow  of  a  summer  day. 


THE   WITCH   OE   LYNN.  219 

And  light  was  the  heart  of  that  young  man  bold, 

As  he  sportively  onward  sped, 
As  free  as  the  billows  that  round  him  rolled, 

Or  the  sunlight  round  his  head. 

But  a  cloud  soon  arose  within  the  west, 
That  curtained  the  windows  of  light ; 

A  gloom  came  down  on  the  ocean's  breast, 
Like  the  gathering  shades  of  night ; 

And  the  winds  piped  loud  o'er  the  troubled  seas, 

And  frightened  the  ocean  bird, 
And  the  young  man's  bosom  was  ill  at  ease, 

For  a  well-known  voice  he  heard  : 

"  The  surges  will  dash  your  cold  corse  o'er, 

And  the  shark-fish  claim  its  own, 
Or,  mangled  and  stark,  on  a  rugged  shore 

Will  your  ghastly  form  be  thrown." 

Then  a  huge  wave  reared  its  hideous  head, 

And  rushed  on  him  amain  ; 
And  his  mind  flew  back,  in  the  time  of  dread, 

To  scenes  he  'd  ne'er  see  again ; 

And  a  view  of  a  misspent  life  was  given, 

All  marked  and  sullied  by  sin ; 
One  prayer  for  mercy  he  raised  to  heaven, 

One  curse  for  the  witch  of  Lynn. 


220  THE   WITCH   OF   LYNN. 

With  quick  resolve  he  seized  an  oar, 
And  smote  the  wave  in  its  breast ; 

Enough  —  the  tempest  was  speedily  o'er, 
And  the  billows  sank  to  their  rest. 

Now  rowed  he  briskly  the  billows  o'er, 

And  cheerily  neared  the  land, 
And  well-known  forms  on  the  sea-beat  shore 

He  saw  before  him  stand. 

"  Ah,  well  have  ye  come,  for  a  wonder  dread 

Awaits  you  in  yonder  room  ; 
For  the  witch  of  Lynn  lieth  cold  and  dead, 

With  a  sudden  and  fearful  doom." 

And  cold  and  stiff  her  body  he  found, 
And,  stranger  than  all  the  rest, 

It  bore  no  sign  of  bruise  or  wound, 
Save  an  oar-blade  mark  on  the  breast  ! 

A  pious  man  said  't  was  the  devil's  seal, 
But  the  young  man  said  not  a  word, 

And  left  the  town  —  but,  for  woe  or  for  weal, 
No  one  in  Lynn  ever  heard. 


APPLES:    AN   ANALOGY. 

"  BUY  any  apples  ?  "  said  a  tiny  boy, 

Whose  bright  blue  eyes  ten  summers  scarce  had  seen ; 
His  youthful  look  had  none  of  childhood's  joy, 

And  speculation  triumphed  in  his  mien ; 
A  cunning  glance  accompanied  the  word, 

As  if  his  eye  the  latent  thought  could  trace ; 
Seeing  the  answer,  ere  his  ear  had  heard, 

Written  distinctly  in  the  buyer's  face. 
"  Buy  any  apples  ?  "  and,  his  traffic  sped, 
The  boy  and  basket  from  my  notice  fled. 

How  like  the  child,  thus  practising  his  art, 

Is  man  throughout  the  busy  act  of  life  ! 
The  mighty  temple  called  the  human  heart 

With  money-changing  schemes  is  ever  rife  : 
Apples  the  stock,  of  large  or  small  renown, 

With  low  and  lofty  traffic  is  the  game ; 
All  practise  it,  from  him  who  wears  the  crown 

Down  to  the  lesser  one  of  humbler  fame. 
"  Buy  any  apples  ?  "  is  the  constant  call,  — 
Some  get  "  whole  heaps,"  but  more  get  none  at  all. 


THE   DEAD   SAILOR. 

AN  eve  of  beauty  on  a  summer  sea,  — 

The  waves  were  sinking  gently  to  their  rest, 
And  twittering  sea-birds  with  a  noisy  glee 

Skimmed,  with  delighted  wing,  the  ocean's  breast. 
The  moon  serenely  from  a  cloudless  sky, 

With  heaven's  own  holy  beauty  in  her  ray, 
Seemed,  like  a  pitying  angel  from  on  high, 

To  bless  the  dying  sailor  as  he  lay. 

The  strong  was  bowed ;  the  mighty  was  subdued ; 

Death  beckoned  with  his  shadowy  hand  away  ; 
Prone  lay  the  form  which  often  had  withstood 

Assailing  horrors  in  their  stern  array. 
Shipwreck  and  peril  had  essayed  their  power 

His  death  in  darkest  moments  to  achieve ; 
But  harmless  had  he  passed  through  terror's  hour, 

To  die,  at  last,  upon  that  calm,  bright  eve. 

Low  rise  his  murmurs  on  the  evening  air, 
Murmurs  of  home  and  friends,  far,  far  away ; 

A  language  strange  he  speaks,* — his  thoughts  are  there, 
Where  at  this  hour  of  eve  his  parents  pray, 

*  He  was  by  birth  a  Dane,  though  twenty  years'  residence  in  this 
country  had  so  perfected  him  in  our  language  that  no  one  could 
ever  have  supposed  him  a  foreigner,  unless  from  being  informed  of 


THE  DEAD   SAILOR.  223 

That  this  their  son,  the  wanderer  o'er  the  earth, 
May  be  preserved  from  perils  and  alarms, 

To  bring  a  contrite  spirit  to  their  hearth, 
And  find  forgiveness  in  their  loving  arms ! 

"We  saw  him  breathe  his  last,  our  messmate  bold,  — 

No  word  we  spake,  but  gazed  upon  the  dead ; 
Serene  he  lay,  unheeding,  stark  and  cold, 

And  many  a  tear  o'er  that  loved  form  was  shed. 
We  buried  him  beneath  the  ocean  waves,  — 

A  better  sailor's  tomb  than  earthly  sod, — 
The  mortal  of  the  man  the  billow  laves, 

The  soul,  immortal,  resteth  with  its  God. 

the  fact.  In  his  last  moments  (while  unconscious)  his  language 
was  entirely  Danish,  and  we  could  distinguish  but  enough  to  con 
vince  us  that  he  imagined  himself  amid  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  and 
was  conversing  with  old  frienda. 


RHYME   ABOUT   A   BULLFROG, 
IK  A  CITY  APOTHECABY'S  WINDOW. 

THINE  is  no  note  to  tickle  gentle  ears, 

Grim  songster  of  the  marsh ! 

But  dissonant  and  harsh  — 
Unlovely,  as  thy  countenance  appears. 
Mournfully  sit'st  thou,  gazing,  day  by  day, 

With  dolorous,  dismal  looks, 

Thinking,  perchance,  of  brooks 
In  green  remembered  meadows  far  away ; 
Or  on  some  cool  retreat  in  distant  bogs, 

Where  the  zephyr  speeds, 

Whistling  on  reeds, 

Chiming  in  harmony  with  thy  kindred  frogs. 
I  gaze  upon  thee,  frog,  and  gaze  in  pity ; 

'A  "  rus.  in  urb."  they  call 't, 

I  think,  but  if  in  fault, 
In  English  thou  'rt  a  rustic  in  the  city, 
Like  some  old  Israelite  by  Babel's  stream, 

Solemnly  sitting  there, 

With  sadness  in  thine  air, 
Spending  thy  days  in  one  regretful  dream. 
Some  call  thee  ugly,  but  they  do  thee  wrong, 

And  I  for  native  beauty 

Will  stand  out  as  in  duty ; 
Thou  'rt  prettier  far  than  many  sons  of  song,  - 


RHYME   ABOUT   A   BULLFROG.  225 

Men  of  the  hairy  mouths,  as  if  they  'd  bite  ye, 

Roaring  their  crazy  notes 

From  transatlantic  throats, 
Signers  Bamboozleum  and  Lignumvitae. 
And  we  are  fain  thy  sadness  to  beguile ; 

Rouse  ye,  my  prince  of  frogs, 

Throw  sadness  to  the  dogs, 
And  give  us  once  the  sunshine  of  a  smile. 
Alas  !  he 's  senseless  as  the  nether  stone. 

He  heeds  not  sympathy, 

He  sees,  yet  does  not  see, 
He  in  the  city's  crowd  is  all  alone. 
15 


FRANKLIN. 

WH11TKN  FOB  A  ITEW  TOBK  PBDTTEBS'  FESTIVAL. 

MOTITER  of  Arts !     Thy  children  come 

Fraternal  faith  anew  to  plight, 
As  brethren  round  the  hearth  of  home 

On  some  time-honored  festal  night ; 
To  cast  the  harsh  emotions  by 

The  turmoil  of  the  world  imparts, 
And  crowd  the  quick  hours,  as  they  fly, 

With  melody  from  genial  hearts. 

All  sorrows  borne,  or  ills  endured, 

Forgotten  be  in  present  joy ; 
Relax  the  nerve  to  toil  inured 

In  Friendship's  beam,  in  Mirth's  employ  ; 
Most  blest  the  season  that  can  bring 

Respite  from  Care's  corroding  chain, 
Where  flowers  of  soul  luxuriant  spring, 

To  make  the  saddened  smile  again. 

Here,  as  we  mingle  souls  to-night, 
One  thought  preeminent  must  press, 

One  topic  to  impart  delight, 
That  waning  years  make  never  less : 


FRANKLIN.  227 

We  speak  the  name  that  gilds  our  art, 
Impressed  on  Time's  illumined  page, 

And  cherished  warm  in  every  heart, 
The  Printer's  glorious  heritage. 

The  name  of  FRANKLIN  !     And  the  blood 

Stirs  quicker  at  its  magic  sound, 
And  busy  memory  brings  a  flood 

Of  mighty  deeds  to  ray  it  round. 
And  that  great  name,  our  cynosure, 

Will  ever  cheer  us  with  its  light,  — 
Like  the  north  star  'twill  still  endure, 

When  our  small  suns  have  sunk  in  night. 

Mother  of  Arts !    We  tribute  bring 

Of  honor  to  thy  mighty  son, 
Whose  praises  every  land  doth  sing 

That  science  sheds  her  light  upon. 
Our  brother !     'T  is  no  idle  boast,  — 

A  proud  affinity  we  claim ; 
And  this  to-night  shall  be  our  toast :  — 

Our  brother-craftsman  Franklin's  fame ! 


THE    DISAPPOINTED    FLOCK;    OR,    THE 
SHEPHERD    IMPOUNDED. 

A  caution  to  peaceful  people,  with  termagant  wires,  not  to  leave 
the  key  on  the  outside  of  the  door  ;  and  to  flighty  parsons,  not  to 
get  so  high  that  they  can't  jump  down. 

I  'M  not  inclined  to  swear  the  tale  is  true 

I  here  indite  in  affluence  of  rhyme ; 
Nor  be  precise  in  stating  where  or  who, 

Or  be  particular  in  fixing  time. 

Enough  for  me  there  on  a  time  befell, 
'T  was  said,  an  incident  of  teeming  note, 

Which  gossips  o'er  their  tea  would  love  to  tell ; 
And  mirthfulness  did  that  same  tale  promote. 

A  Sunday  in  the  melting,  burning  June 

Gave  earth  a  sun  that  tried  the  people  sore,  — 

The  organ-pipes  with  sweating  drowned  the  tune 
That  struggled  through  their  apertures  to  pour. 

The  church-bell,  to  its  calling  true,  did  toll,  — 
Tolled  till  the  tollman  could  n't  keep  awake ; 

And  if  its  notes  were  bank-notes,  every  soul 
A  most  usurious  toll  that  day  did  take. 


THE   DISAPPOINTED   FLOCK.  229 

The  people  gathered  gravely  in  their  pews, 
Gravely  as  was  their  wont  on  such  a  day ; 

Yet  quite  divergent  were  their  various  views,  — 
The  elders  looked  to  heaven,  youth  t'  other  way. 

And  heard  they  still  the  bell's  dull  toll  and  toll, 
The  neighbors  wishing  that  its  tongue  were  dumb ; 

And  heard  they  still  the  dismal  organ  dole 
Its  airs  —  the  atmosphere  of  kingdom  come. 

And  still  the  parson  came  not  on  the  scene, 

Though  long  the  hour  had  passed  at  which  he  ought ; 

Grave  men  looked  round  with  a  most  meaning  mien, 
And  all  were  wide  awake  with  wakened  thought. 

The  deacon  placed  his  forehead  in  his  palm, 
As  if  the  matter  he  would  take  in  hand, 

Then,  rising  with  a  Christian  temper  calm, 
He  hemmed  aloud,  attention  to  command  : 

"  I  go,  my  friends,"  the  good  man  spake,  "  to  bring 
Some  tidings  sure  of  him  we  love  so  dear ; 

It  surely  cannot  be  a  trivial  thing 

To  keep  him  from  these  courts,  the  case  is  clear." 

Then  wandered  Deacon  Jones  from  forth  the  church, 

And  to  the  parsonage  he  went  away, 
Leaving  the  congregation  in  the  lurch, 

To  everything  but  prayerfulness  a  prey. 


230  THE   DISAPPOINTED   FLOCK. 

Imagination  drew  the  hoof  and  tail 

And  horns  of  demons  with  an  aspect  dire, 

Who  doubtless  dared  his  reverence  to  assail 
For  striving  to  throw  water  on  their  fire ; 

Or,  taking  to  himself  some  siren's  form, 

Old  Smut  had  lured  him  from  his  calling  high ;  — 

They  knew  his  heart  susceptible  and  warm  ; 
They  knew  the  tempter  he  would  never  fly. 

And  there  they  steamed  upon  that  Sabbath  day  ; 

Though  temperate  men,  yet  every  man  was  hot, 
Determined  to  the  church  to  be  a  stay,  — 

Like  Lady  Macbeth,  could  n't  "  out  the  spot ; " 

And  where  was  he,  the  good  man  and  the  right, 

Who  "  waiting  saints  "  were  anxious  should  appear  ? 

Alas !  good  Deacon  Jones,  he  found  him  tight 
And  fast  within  an  upper  chamber  drear. 

So  upward  did  his  heavenly  fancy  rise, 

His  study  graced  his  dwelling's  topmost  height ; 

Two  pair  of  stairs  would  not  his  need  suffice, 
His  aspiration  took  another  flight. 

And  there  good  Deacon  Jones  the  parson  found, 
Breathing  the  breezes  through  a  skylight  dim ; 

He  heard  the  bell's  toll  echoing  all  around, 
But  sad  the  story  that  it  told  to  him. 


THE   DISAPPOINTED   FLOCK.  231 

A  shrewish  wife  had  turned  on  him  the  key, 
And  left  him  there  in  solitude  to  pout ; 

Like  Sterne's  caged  starling,  prisoned  close  was  he, 
Sighing,  most  dismally,  "  I  can't  get  out." 

*  =fc  *  •*  *  * 

In  order  meet  they  all  did  homeward  part, 

As  they  the  tale  of  trouble  soon  did  hear ; 
So  sad  the  parson  took  the  thing  to  heart, 

He  left  the  parish  ere  another  year. 


I   WOULD  N'T— WOULD    YOU? 

I  WOULD  N'T  give  much  for  his  spirit  who  'd  covet 
And  wish  for  his  own  a  gem  or  a  flower, 

Who  'd  silently  long  for  and  secretly  love  it, 

And  see  it  at  last  grace  some  other  man's  bower ; 
I  would  n't  give  much  for  such  spirit,  would  you  ? 

I  would  n't  give  much  for  the  diffident  lover 
Who  mopingly  tenders  his  mistress  his  sighs, 

And,  whilst  loving  nothing  that 's  earthly  above  her, 
Sees  some  more  ardent  lover  run  off  with  the  prize ; 
I  would  n't  give  much  for  such  lovers,  would  you  ? 

I  would  n't  give  much  for  a  parson  who  preaches 
'Gainst  vices  and  follies  that  life's  path  bestrew ; 

Who,  maugre  the  moral  his  theory  teaches, 
In  practice  performs  as  all  other  men  do ; 
I  would  n't  give  much  for  such  parsons,  would  you  ? 

I  wouldn't  give  much  for  church-members  who  wrangle, 
And  sneer  at  whatever  another  may  do, 

With  bitterness  striving  the  fair  fame  to  mangle 
Of  those  who  may  wish  other  paths  to  pursue ; 
I  wouldn't  give  much  for  such  members,  would  you? 


THE  COAL-DEALER'S  DREAM.* 

0,  WHY  do  you  shiver  and  stake,  Mr.  Jones  ? 
0,  why  do  you  shiver  and  shake  ? 

You  tremble  and  sweat 

Like  a  poor  man  in  debt, 

And  your  garment  is  wringing  with  wet,  Mr.  Jones, 

Your  garment  is  wringing  with  wet. 

Ah,  me !  what  a  dream  I  have  had,  Mrs.  Jones ; 
Ah,  me  !  what  a  dream  I  have  had ; 

I  feel  sore  oppressed 

By  a  load  at  my  breast; 

It  is  not  light  weight,  you  may  rest,  Mrs.  Jones, 

It  is  not  light  weight,  you  may  rest. 

I  thought  I  had  seeded  heaven's  height,  Mrs.  Jones, 
I  thought  I  had  scaled  heaven's  height, 

But  was  stopped  by  the  guard, 

Who  questioned  me  hard 

If  I  had  credential  or  card,  Mrs.  Jones, 

If  I  had  credential  or  card. 

*  Some  years  ago,  during  an  angry  altercation  between  the  Path 
finder  newspaper  and  the  coal-dealers  of  Boston,  the  Dream  grew 
out  of  the  difficulty.  Of  course,  it  is  only  a  dream. 


234  THE  COAL-DEALER'S  DREAM. 

I  gave  him  my  business  card,  Mrs.  Jones, 
I  gave  him  my  business  card, 

And  when  he  read  "  coal," 

His  voice  seemed  to  roll 

An  ocean  of  dread  o'er  my  soul,  Mrs.  Jones, 

An  ocean  of  dread  o'er  my  soul. 

I  felt  I  was  in  the  wrong  bin,  Mrs.  Jones, 
I  felt  I  was  in  the  wrong  bin ; 

The  guardian  spoke, 

And  then,  without  joke, 

My  condition  seemed  blacker  than  coke,  Mrs.  Jones, 

My  condition  seemed  blacker  than  coke. 

He  spoke  then  my  doom  in  my  ear,  Mrs.  Jones, 
He  spoke  then  my  doom  in  my  ear : 

"  Leave,  leave  you  this  gate, 

You  are  wanting  in  weight ; 

You  are  doomed  to  a  darker  estate,  Mr.  Jones, 

You  are  doomed  to  a  darker  estate." 

Then  down  I  was  hurled  through  the  air,  Mrs.  Jones, 
Then  down  I  was  hurled  through  the  air, 

And  leagues  on  leagues  passed, 

Which  brought  me,  at  last, 

To  a  cavern  both  gloomy  and  vast,  Mrs.  Jones, 

To  a  cavern  both  gloomy  and  vast. 

* 

In  vain  I  looked  for  a  guide,  Mrs.  Jones, 
In  vain  I  looked  for  a  guide ; 


THE  COAL-DEALER'S  DREAM.  235 

Amid  the  dark  air 

I  peered  everywhere, 

But  there  was  n't  a  Pathfinder  there,  Mrs.  Jones, 

But  there  was  n't  a  Pathfinder  there. 

And  while  thus  beshrouded  in  gloom,  Mrs.  Jones, 
And  while  thus  beshrouded  in  gloom, 

A  door  was  oped  wide, 

And  a  scene  I  descried 

I  could  n't  describe  if  I  tried,  Mrs.  Jones, 

I  could  n't  describe  if  I  tried. 

I  screened  my  eyes  with  my  hands,  Mrs.  Jones, 
I  screened  my  eyes  with  my  hands 

To  shut  out  the  rays 

From  a  vast  furnace  blaze, 

That  burst  on  my  night-wildered  gaze,  Mrs.  Jones, 

That  burst  on  my  night-wildered  gaze. 

The  ruling  passion  was  strong,  Mrs.  Jones, 
The  ruling  passion  was  strong ; 

And  though  it  was  droll, 

I  forgot  for  my  soul, 

And  thought  of  a  contract  for  coal,  Mrs.  Jones, 

And  thought  of  a  contract  for  coal. 

As  soon  as  they  saw  who  I  was,  Mrs.  Jones, 
As  soon  as  they  saw  who  I  was, 

The  door  was  shut  to, 

Without  more  ado, 


236  THE  COAL-DEALER'S  DREAM. 

And  a  voice  roared  the  key-hole  through,  Mrs.  Jones, 
And  a  voice  roared  the  key-hole  through. 

And  these  are  the  words  that  were  said,  Mrs.  Jones, 
And  these  are  the  words  that  were  said : 

"  Crawl  back  to  the  dust ! 

You  're  not  fit  to  be  curst, 

Of  all  mean  things  you  're  the  worst,  Mr.  Jones, 

Of  all  mean  things  you  're  the  worst ! " 

Then  here  I  awaked  by  your  side,  Mrs.  Jones, 
Then  here  I  awaked  by  your  side ; 

'T  is  a  frightful  thing  gone, 

And  I  '11  try  to  atone, 

And  be  fit  for  someplace  when  I  'm  done,  Mrs.  Jones, 

And  be  fit  for  some  place  when  I  'm  done. 


A  SONG 

FOR  THE   MERRY-MAKING  'ON   WATER   DAY. 

Printed  in  the  procession,  by  the  Franklin  Typographical  Society, 
on  the  occasion  of  the  introduction  of  Cochituate  water  into  Boston, 
Oct.  25, 1848. 

AWAY,  away  with  care  to-day ! 

There  's  naught  but  joy  before  us ; 
A  gladsome  shout  from  all  goes  out, 

And  we  will  join  the  chorus. 

All  hearts  are  glad ;  each  face  is  clad 

In  smiles,  delighted  beaming ; 
There  's  music  rare  on  the  autumn  air, 

And  banners  gay  are  streaming. 

The  axe  is  still,  the  loom,  the  mill, 

The  miser  quits  his  treasure ; 
And  every  trade,  't  would  seem,  had  made 

A  business  out  of  pleasure. 

And  beauty  bright  sheds  forth  its  light 

To  glad  the  blest  occasion, 
And  hearts  to-day  surrender  may 

To  coveted  invasion. 


A  SONG. 

This  is  no  meed  for  gallant  deed 
Achieved  'mid  fields  of  slaughter ; 

Voice,  bell  and  flame,  with  joy  proclaim 
The  Advent  Day  of  Water ! 

Cochituate,  inspired  of  late 

By  generous  ambition, 
Left  its  still  home  to  hither  roam       \ 

Upon  a  blessed  mission : 

It  passed  along  with  gladsome  song ; 

The  meadows  smiled  to  greet  it ; 
And  as  each  day  it  moved  this  way, 

Our  spirits  sprang  to  meet  it. 

Its  journey  passed,  't  is  here  at  last, 

And  hailed  with  acclamation  ; 
And  every  tongue  shall  swell  the  song ; 

Whate'er  its  rank  or  station. 

The  thirsty  mart  feels  through  its  heart 

The  mighty  current  quiver, 
Through  streets  and  lanes,  in  iron  veins, 

A  subterranean  river. 

Unseen  it  comes  to  all  our  homes, 

To  cheer  the  high  and  lowly  ; 
Like  gifts  from  heaven,  unknown  when  given, 

But  through  their  influence  holy. 


A  SOXG.  239 

Exuberant  force  impels  its  course, 

It  rushes  wildly  onward  ; 
Its  fountain  spray  darts  high  away 

In  jets  fantastic  sunward. 

Hail,  hopeful  stream !  from  thy  bright  gleam 

Our  hearts  reflect  the  omen 
That  water's  want  no  more  will  haunt 

The  thirsty  man  or  woman. 

Then  let  us  join  in  nine  times  nine, 

To  greet  the  scene  before  us, 
Till  to  the  skies  our  shouts  arise, 

An  universal  chorus. 

And  ever  may  we  bless  the  day 
When  Boston's  sons  and  daughters 

Came  up  elate  to  celebrate 
The  Advent  of  the  Waters. 


A   TOUCHING   BALLAD. 

DESCBiravE  OP  ROMAN'S  FALSEHOOD  AXD  TOO-CONHDISO  HAH'S 

DESTRUCTION. 

POOR  Sam  Brown  dearly  loved  a  maid — 

Fair  Carabella  Jones ; 
He  loved  her  with  his  heart  of  hearts, 

And  with  his  very  bones. 

And  twice  a  week  did  Sammy  go 

His  Carabel  to  see ; 
Neat  as  a  pin  from  top  to  toe, 

And  light  of  heart,  was  he. 

And  Carabella  often  said, 

In  tones  quite  far  from  sham, 
There  was  n't  anywhere  a  lad 

She  loved  so  well  as  Sam. 

'T  was  on  a  night  of  Saturday, 

And  Sam  was  in  a  mart, 
And  bought  his  dear  a  true-love  knot, 

To  wear  upon  her  heart. 

"  It  is  n't  hardly  ten,"  said  he, 
And  smiling  shook  his  head,  — 

"  I  guess  I  '11  take  it  up  to  her, 
Afore  she  goes  to  bed." 


A  TOUCHING  BALLAD.  241 

Straightway  he  went  unto  her  house, 

And  fancied  her  surprise 
When  this  new  tribute  that  he  bore 

Should  sparkle  in  her  eyes ; 

'T  would  add  unto  the  brilliant  glow 

That  brightened  them  before, 
And  make  her  heart,  just  like  a  well, 

With  joy  to  bubble  o'er. 

Softly  he  stept  —  said  he,  "  I  think 

I  '11  take  her  unawares ; " 
He  opes  the  door,  and  —  perfidy !  — 

How  the  poor  fellow  stares  ! 

There,  sitting  by  the  kitchen  fire, 

Was  a  tall  country  chap, 
With  Carabella  Jones,  the  fair, 

A-sitting  in  his  lap  ! 

One  arm  of  her'n  his  neck  embraced, 

Her  cheek  lay  close  to  his'n, 
While  his  arm  her  too  willing  waist 

Most  firmly  did  imprison. 

Alas,  poor  Sam !  he  tore  his  hair. 

Then  left  the  house  forever, 
And  threw  his  new-bought  true-love  knot 

Far,  far  out  in  the  river. 
16 


242  A  TOUCHING  BALLAD. 

His  heart  was  broke,  he  mourned  to  find 
Her  false  in  whom  he  'd  trusted ; 

And  soon  he  took  to  drinking  deep, 
And  soon  he  came  out  busted. 

Oft  passengers,  the  corners  round, 
Would  see  him  pensive  standing, 

His  hat  drawn  down  above  his  eyes, 
Each  pocket  with  a  hand  in ; 

And,  senseless  as  the  very  rock 
'Grainst  which  he  was  reclining, 

All  weathers  were  the  same  to  him, 
If  raining  or  if  shining. 

His  form  and  face,  once  typical 
Of  everything  that 's  jolly, 

Seemed  changed  by  elfin  power  to  wear 
A  marble  melancholy. 

And  stiff  they  found  him,  one  cold  morn, 
Upright  by  that  cold  corner,   ' 

And  people  sighed  to  find  poor  Sam 
Had  come  to  be  a  "  goner." 

And  Crowner  Smith  this  verdict  gave 

On  the  unhappy  fellow, 
That  he  had  found  his  early  grave 

Through  rum  and  Carabella ! 


YARN  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

A  BALLAD   OF  ISLIHGTOff   CREEK. 

Revealing  certain  fancied  resemblances  between  a  mill  creek  and 
other  large  ponds,  frith  some  reminiscences  in  point ;  bat  not  much 
of  a  story,  any  how. 

A  TALL  man  stood  upon  a  till,  — 

A  mill-pond  laved  its  base,  — 
The  prospect  wide  that  met  his  eye 

Was  clothed  in  summer's  grace  ; 
"I'll  ask  yon  ancient  man,"  says  he, 

"  Some  story  of  this  place. 

"  It  is  a  goodly  scene  to  view,  — 

I  've  travelled  far  and  wide, 
I  've  witnessed  scenes  in  distant  climes 

That  shone  in  grander  pride, 
But  for  simple  beauty,  unadorned, 

This  is  worth  all  beside." 


He  bowed  him  to  the  old  man's  ear, 
Whom  he  saw  sitting  there ; 

The  man  was  very,  very  old, 
And  snow-white  was  his  hair ; 


244        YARN  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

He  seemed  a  patriarch,  indeed, 
Of  venerable  air.* 

"  My  ancient  friend,"  the  young  man  said, 

"  What  pond  is  this  I  see  ? 
Its  beautiful  and  glassy  sheen 

Seems  fairy-like  to  me  ; 
Is  there  no  story  for  the  scene,  — 

No  unwrit  history  ?  " 

The  old  man  spoke,  —  "I  've  grown  gray  old 

On  this,  my  native  shore ; 
I  've  seen  far  lands  in  my  young  days,  — 

I  've  sailed  the  wide  world  o'er ; 
At  last  I  'm  fast  to  moorings  brought, 

To  leave  my  home  no  more. 

"  Bound  to  this  spot,  in  miniature 

I  live  anew  my  life ; 
I  see  again  the  surges  roll 

In  elemental  strife, 
Or,  gently  rippling  on  the  shore, 

With  pleasant  music  rife. 

"  And  herein  I  can  sail  again 

The  voyages  I  have  gone ; 
I  brave  once  more  old  Boreas 

Around  the  blustering  Horn, 

*The  venerable  man  is  now  departed,  leaving  but  a  beautiful 
memory  of  his  worth  behind,  which  is  fondly  cherished  by  his  BOD. 


YARN  OP  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER.        245 

Or  feel  the  burning  eye  of  Sol 
In  fiery  Capricorn. 

"  When  the  sweet  breath  of  summer  draws 

From  out  the  cooling  west, 
I  revel  in  the  genial  trades 

That  fanned  my  youthful  breast, 
When  we  flew  along  with  stu'nsails  set, 

By  fear  all  unoppressed. 

"  And  when  the  furious  Equinox 

Lasheth  the  '  sounding  shore,' 
Dashing  the  spray  with  angry  might 

The  very  house-tops  o'er, 
I  hear  again  the  heaving  main, 

And  tremble  at  its  roar. 

"And  shipwreck's  voice  oft  rides  the  blast,—- 

A  voice  well  known  to  me ; 
I  Ve  seen  fair  proas  bow  their  mast 

To  the  fierce  gale's  mastery, 
And  many  a  daring  crew  outcast 

Upon  this  mimic  sea. 

"And  scenes  of  dread  have  met  my  view, — 

They  '11  haunt  me  till  I  die ;  — 
T  was  yonder,  in  the  rippling  blue, 

That  so  delights  the  eye, 
Where  gentle  waves  make  music  true, 

Rose  childhood's  drowning  cry ! 


246         YAKN  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINES. 

"  Here  are  my  bays  and  islands  too, 
My  gulfs,  my  channels,  straits ; 

My  grandson  runs  a  packet-boat 
To  yonder  mill  with  freights, 

Unlearned  as  yet  to  speculate 
In  fluctuating  rates." 

"  Where  are  the  fruits,  remembrancers 

Of  those  you  've  early  seen  ? 
Where  is  the  tropic's  lavish  yield, 

Plantains  and  okroes  green,  — 
The  yam  and  tanyah,  esculents, 

You  see  not  these,  I  ween  ?  " 

"  But  we  have  better  far  than  those,  — 

Talk  not  of  roots  like  yams, 
When  we  can  dig,  this  beach  along, 

Such  groundnuts  as  our  clams, 
The  fat  ones  that  we  gather  in. 

'Twixt  yonder  point  and  Ham's.* 

"  Where  is  the  orange  can  begin 

With  that  gold  pippin  there, 
To  show  such  fair  external  worth, 

Or  with  its  taste  compare  ? 
See  where  between  the  leaves  of  green 

It  glistens  in  the  air." 

*  Ham's  Point  will  be  readily  remembered  by  all  Portsmouth 
boys. 


YARN  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER,        247 

"  Shipwreck  you  state,  and  violence, 

But  battle's  brazen  throat 
Has  never  echoed  round  these  shores 

Its  wild,  discordant  note ; 
You  could  not  have  a  naval  fight 

In  yonder  timid  boat !  " 

"Yes,  but  we  had,"  the  veteran  spoke  ; 

"  Yonder  lies  Christian  Shore  ;  * 
It  merited  no  peaceful  name 

In  distant  days  of  yore, 
For  hostile  hordes  from  thenceward  came, 

Annoying  us  full  sore ; 

"  Until,  in  action  close  and  warm, 

We  drove  them  back  amain  ; 
We  showered  missiles  on  their  heads 

Thick  as  autumnal  rain ; 
They  left  us  to  our  quiet  then, 

And  came  not  back  again. 

"  But  when  the  winter  throws  its  arms 

Over  creation  wide, 
And  icy  fingers  gather  in 

The  circulating  tide, 
Come  peaceful  spearmen  here  with  spears 

And  axes  panoplied. 

*  A  part  of  Portsmouth  named  Christian  Shore,  though  from  no 
particular  Christian  characteristic  that  the  writer  could  ever  dis 
cover. 


248        YARN  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAKINEB. 

"  And  this,  their  winter  calling,  then, 

Similitude  reveals 
Between  the  one  who  dares  new  worlds 

To  seek  for  fur-clad  seals, 
Or  whaleman  braving  death  for  gain, 

And  him  who  spears  for  eels. 

"  But  now  farewell ;  the  waning  day 
'Minds  me  't  is  time  for  tea ; 

Go  out  into  the  world,  young  man, 
And  think  no  more  on  me 

Than  if  I  were,  like  Ringbolt,  sunk 
'  A  thousand  miles  at  sea.'  " 


MY   LITTLE   ANGEL   BOYS. 

I  MAY  not  see  their  features, 
Save  in  memory's  faithful  glass, 

But  I  feel  that  they  are  with  me 
Each  moment  that  doth  pass. 

I  feel  them  in  the  promptings 
Of  good  which  thrill  my  heart ; 

I  hear  them  in  the  voices 
Which  pleasure  most  impart. 

When  the  sun  beams  bright  around  me, 
And  my  soul  is  full  of  joys, 

I  then  discern  the  presence 
Of  my  two  angel  boys. 

They  whisper  solace  to  me, 
When  sorrow's  cloud  is  dark ; 

They  fan  hope's  fading  embers, 
When  dwindled  to  a  spark. 

Their  voice  is  sweetest  music, 
But  it  greeteth  not  the  ear ; 

The  heart  alone  receives  it,  — 
The  heart  alone  can  hear. 


250  MY  LITTLE  ANGEL  BOYS. 

As  I  lay  me  down  to  slumber, 
Peace  in  my  breast  doth  reign, 

For  I  know  my  angel  watchers 
Amid  the  gloom  remain. 

Spirit  eyes  gaze  on  me, 
Eyes  that  know  not  night ; 

Spirit  hands  unite  to  bless  me, 
Hidden  from  my  sight. 

Hidden,  but,  0,  happiness  !  — 
Faith  assurance  brings  !  — 

Living,  loving,  still  they  're  round  me, 
Borne  on  willing  wings. 


LOVE'S  VICISSITUDES. 

Being  on  account  of  trouble  in  love,  and  a  sad  overturn  of  for 
tune's  ladder. 

JUDY  CATHARINE  O'BEADT, 

Long  time  ago, 
Was  "  eddicated  "  as  a  lady, 

As  she  could  show. 

Servants  had  she  ever  waiting, 

Long  time  ago, 
With  ready  hearts  a-palpitating 

Her  will  to  know. 

Fine  domains  were  spread  before  her, 

Long  time  ago, 
Fortune's  skies  were  smiling  o'er  her, 

Ne'er  knew  she  woe. 

Propitious  seasons,  in  their  seeming, 

Long  time  ago, 
Wove  fairy  tinges  in  her  dreaming, 

Of  gorgeous  glow. 


252  LOVE'S  VICISSITUDES. 

But  love,  the  wily  little  de — mon, 

Long  time  ago, 
Bestrewed  her  rosy  path  with  evil, 

As  we  will  show. 

Her  heart  to  Tarn  McShane  was  given, 

Long  time  ago, 
Who  followed  diggin'  for  a  livin' 

Turf-bogs  and  so. 

Secret  was  their  love  conducted, 

Long  time  ago ; 
Her  father  could  not  be  instructed, 

His  wrath  would  flow ! 

Duds  and  money,  in  abundance, 

Long  time  ago, 
Plate  and  jewels  in  redundance, 

He  had  to  show. 

And,  wealthiest  he  upon  the  Carron, 

Long  time  ago, 
Had  willed  that  Kate  should  wed  a  baron, 

She  glad  or  no. 

Their  secret  soon  did  he  discover, 

Long  time  ago ; 
She  left  the  country  with  her  lover, 

Her  all  below. 


LOVE'S  VICISSITUDES.  253 

Poverty  soon  found,  nor  left  them, 

Long  time  ago ; 
Privation  of  their  health  bereft  them, 

Death  crowned  the  woe. 

He  drank  iced  water,  when  all  heated, 

Long  time  ago ; 
And  shared  the  fate  to  all  those  meted 

Who  will  do  so. 

And  she,  ah  !  sad  was  her  condition, 

Long  time  ago ; 
She,  the  polished  and  the  rich  'un, 

Or  lately  so. 

Sad  her  end  to  write  or  hark  it, 

Long  time  ago, 
She  retailed  peaches  by  the  market, 

And  apples  also ! 


ANGEL   VISITS. 

MAN  in  Time's  low  valley  standing, 
Brief  the  view  his  eye  commanding, 
Never  changing  nor  expanding, 

Dimly  seen  through  misty  haze ; 
Circling  mountains,  purple  beaming, 
Lured  his  soul  to  constant  dreaming,  — 
Ever  dreaming,  ever  scheming,  — 

On  and  upward  was  his  gaze. 

Hope  portrayed  with  sweet  prevision 
Through  the  haze  a  land  elysian, 
Where  no  sorrowing  or  division 

Marred  the  paradisial  scene  ; 
Where,  amid  the  bliss  abounding, 
Angel  harps  were  ever  sounding 
On  the  ambient  air  surrounding, 

'Mid  the  smiles  of  Peace  serene. 

Thus  the  spirit  ever  yearning, 
Still  towards  the  mountains  turning, 
With  a  warm  devotion  burning, 
Pierced  at  last  the  obscuring  haze ; 


ANGEL   VISITS.  255 

When,  adown  the  heights  eternal, 
Bathed  in  heavenly  light  diurnal, 
Angel  bands  in  garb  supernal 
Recompensed  its  watchful  gaze. 

Distant  seen  at  first,  but  nearer 
As  its  vision  waxed  clearer, 
And  the  earnest  soul  sincerer 

For  a  closer  union  prayed ; 
When,  the  righteous  prayer  availing, 
Downward  on  light  pinions  sailing, 
Angels,  with  a  love  ne'er  failing, 

Their  bright  homes  with  mortals  made. 

Joy  is  that  fond  union  bringing ; 
Heavenly  censers  odors  flinging, 
Harps  of  gold  with  joy  are  ringing, 

Tuned  to  notes  of  bliss  above ; 
Wreaths  from  bright  celestial  bowers, 
Wrought  in  ever-living  flowers, 
Bind  the  care-marked  brows  of  ours, 

Woven  by  angelic  love. 

And  the  heart  no  more  shall  sicken, 
No  more  droop  when  sorrow-stricken ; 
Spirit  ministerings  shall  quicken 

Hope  and  joy  to  brightest  bloom ; 
And  our  voices  join  the  chorus 
Of  the  seraphs  round  and  o'er  us, 
Hopeful  for  the  race  before  us,  — 

Fostering  neither  doubt  nor  gloom. 


256  ANGEL  VISITS. 

Still  in  Time's  low  valley  standing, 
Faith  now  views  a  scene  commanding, 
Radiant  glories  e'er  expanding,  — 

Mist  no  more  the  landscape  hides ! 
And  still  comes  a  blessed  legion 
From  that  fair  celestial  region, 
Who,  with  tender,  sweet  adhesion, 

In  the  homes  of  men  abide. 


THE   MYSTERY   SOLVED; 

Or  a  caution  to  people  not  to  think  themselves  better-looking  than 
they  really  are. 

I  MET  a  friend  in  State-street,  and  he  gave  a  leer  and 

wink, 

I  thought  the  fellow  must  be  mad  or  silly  made  by  drink, 
He  plied  his  thumb  unto  his  nose,  and  laughing  passed 

along, 
Amid  the  crowd  of  eager  men  that  thereabout  do  throng. 

And  next  a  lady  fair  I  met,  and  touched  to  her  my  hat ; 
She  merely  smiled  a  "  how  do  ye,"  and  shocking  cold  at 

that; 
And  a  pretty  girl  with  laughter  shook,  who  walked  by 

her  side, 
But  why  they  looked  and  acted  thus  I  knew  not,  if  I  died. 

And  queerly  looked  all  men  at  me,  —  the  stranger  and  the 

friend,  — 

And  nods  and  winks  mysterious  received  I  without  end ; 
Each  store  I  visited  the  clerks  did  whisper  and  did  smile, 
And  the  smooth-faced  pampered  villains  did  watch  me  all 

the  while. 
17 


258  THE  MYSTEBY  SOLVED. 

The  day  was  spent ;  I  homeward  turned,  and  sought  my 

dearest  wife,  — 

Dearest,  because  the  only  one  I  ever  had  in  life ;  — 
The  instant  that  she  looked  on  me,  she  sank  into  a  seat, 
And  with  peals  of  laughter  did  she  me  her  "  lord  and 

Blaster  "  greet. 

Perplexed,  I  thought  her  crazy,  and  I  stamped  and  tore 

my  hair, 
The  "mischief"  seemed  to  haunt  me  here  at  home,  and 

everywhere ; 

I  conjured  her  by  olden  love  the  mystery  to  explain ; 
She  looked  again  into  my  face,  and  then  she  screamed 


She  took  my  hand  and  led  me  up  toward  my  mantel  pier,* 
And,  with  another  burst  of  mirth,  said,  "  Look  in  there, 

my  dear." 
And  there  was  writ  the  meaning  plain  of  shrug  and  nod 

and  wink, 
My  face  was  smeared  confoundedly,  all  over  it,  with  ink ! 


*"  Mantel  pier,9'  —  a  poetical  term,  signifying  a  seven  by  nine 
cracked  looking-glass  in  a  wooden  clock. 


A   PICTURE   FROM   LIFE. 

I  KNOW  a  gentle,  quiet  maid, 
Most  quiet  are  her  ways ; 

There  's  quiet  reigns  in  every  look, 
In  all  she  does  or  says. 

Her  garments  wear  a  quiet  air, 
And  neatly  sit  the  while ; 

There 's  quiet  in  her  low  sweet  voice, 
There 's  quiet  in  her  smile. 

There 's  quiet  in  her  modest  step, 
That  falls  with  quiet  grace ; 

There 's  quiet  in  the  rose's  blush 
That  mantles  o'er  her  face. 

There 's  quiet  pleading  in  her  look, 
From  eyes  of  quiet  blue ; 

Quietly  calm  as  heaven's  self, 
And  seemingly  as  true. 

The  quiet  maiden  has  a  home 

Quiet  as  can  be  found, 
Shut  in  from  city's  dusty  strife, 

And  shielded  from  its  sound. 


260  THE  KULING  PASSION. 

It  is  a  quiet  mansion  old, 
A  solemn  pile  and  gray ; 

Within  its  little  shady  court 
Quiet  prevails  alway. 

A  quiet  tree  its  branches  waves 
Before  her  window's  view, 

And  breezes  play  in  quiet  mood 
Its  verdant  foliage  through. 

Heaven  bless  the  quiet  maiden, 
And  keep  her  aye  from  harm, 

And  may  her  quiet  ne'er  be  broke 
By  trouble  or  alarm ! 


THE   RULING   PASSION. 

AN  editor  lay  in  mortal  strait,  — 

In  sooth  was  near  to  death, — 
About  to  exchange  his  earthly  state, 

He  spoke  with  a  troubled  breath  : 
I  do  not  fear  the  cold,  cold  grave, 

I  do  not  dread  its  gloom,  — 
I  've  been  too  long  but  a  galley  slave, 

To  dread  a  lighter  doom ; 
But  one  thought  gives  me  a  darksome  dread, 

As  wanes  life's  flickering  taper,  — 
Who  is  there  left,  when  I  am  dead, 

That  can  read  the  proof  of  the  paper ! 


THE    VETERAN. 

A  STORY  TOUCHING  MIGHTY  FEATS    OF  ARMS,   WOUJTDS,  A  CANTEEN 
AND  A  BRICK. 

"  FATHER,  what  means  the  frightful  scar 
That  marks  thy  aged  cheek  ?  — 

Is  it  the  fruit  of  bitter  war  ? 
Does  it  of  strife  bespeak  ? 

Or  is  it  mark  by  Nature  made, 
In  some  eccentric  freak  ?  " 

"  That  scar,  my  son,  did  mark  me  long 

Before  you  breathed  the  air ; 
Vigorous  was  I,  and  young  and  strong, 

When  that  was  written  there ; 
It  tells  of  scenes  and  times  of  which 

I  '11  tell  you  when  and  where. 

"  Our  patriot  sires  had  made  a  rule 

That  every  mother's  son 
Should  fully  'quip  and  arm  himself 

With  powder  and  with  gun, 
And  take  the  field  on  muster-days, 

Ere  he  was  twenty-one ; 


262  THE   VETERAN. 

"  And  every  heart  throbbed  ardently 

The  mandate  to  perform ; 
We  rushed  into  the  strife  of  arms 

With  emulation  warm, 
And  many  a  warlike  breeze  we  raised, 

And  many  a  mimic  storm. 

"  Behold  upon  the  kitchen  wall 

That  old  and  rusty  gun  ! 
Full  many  a  time  the  same  I  've  borne 

Till  setting  of  the  sun ; 
On  training-days,  you  may  depend, 

Your  sire  was  always  one. 

"  T  was  on  a  proud  October  day, 
The  sun  shone  clear  and  bright ; 

The  lines  were  marshalled  in  array,  — 
It  was  a  pretty  sight ; 

The  Bozzleton  Light  Infantry 
Were  ranged  upon  the  right. 

"  The  snare-drums  beat  their  loudest  note, 

The  fifes  did  shrilly  play, 
And  banners  waved  upon  the  breeze 

Of  that  great  training-day  ! 
A  sham-fight  was  to  be  at  noon,  — 

All  panted  for  the  fray. 

"  And  every  eye  flashed  keenly  bright 
To  meet  the  scene  of  pride ; 


THE   VETERAN.  263 

The  officers,  in  fixings  fine, 

Along  the  line  did  ride  ;  — 
Our  canteens,  I  forgot  to  say, 

Were  plenteously  supplied.  * 

"  And  soon  the  order  to  begin 
Came  thundering  down  the  line  ! 

The  enemy  had  taken  post 
Right  opposite  to  mine ; 

The  Bozzleton  Light  Infantry 
Then  opened  on  'em  fine ! 

"  An  aged  man,  who,  '  up  a  tree,' 

The  conflict  stern  did  view, 
Vowed  that  it  had  not  been  surpassed 

By  aught  since  Waterloo, 
Where,  you  will  recollect,  were  slain 

An  everlasting  slew ! 

• 

"  We  blazed  away  like  blazes,  and 

Our  muskets  rattled  thick ; 
The  smoke  and  fire  raged  frightfully, 

Our  pulses  travelled  quick ; 
Now  '  charge ! '  the  word,  and  in  a  fall 

Your  parent  hit  a  brick ! 

"  Insensibly  inglorious 

Upon  the  ground  I  lay ; 
They  raised  me  from  the  battle-field, 

And  carted  me  away ; 

•"I  ordered  the  men  to  fill  their  canteens." — Gen.  Taylor. 


264  THE   VETERAN. 

I  was  n't '  tight,'  for  I  had  drank 
But  ten  times  through  the  day. 

"  Nay,  do  not  thumb  thy  nose,  my  son,  — 

It  is  not  well,  forsooth ; 
The  story  that  I  tell  to  thee 

Is  simple,  honest  truth ; 
To  doubt  the  word  of  reverend  age 

Is  very  wrong  in  youth. 

"  And  that 's  the  story  of  the  scar 
Which  on  my  cheek  you  trace ; 

I  'd  like  to  hear  the  villain  speak 
To  brand  it  with  disgrace,  — 

I  'd  wallop  him  who  'd  dare  to  cast 
Aspersion  to  my  face ! " 


LAY   OF   THE   LAST   WHITE   HAT. 


A  FALLISH   ODE. 


Not  much  of  a  story,  but  merely  supposing  what  the  last  of  the 
white  hats  might  say. 


WE  'RE  fading  fast  away,  Leary, 

We  vanish  from  the  pave ; 
The  doom  has  passed  that  we  must  fill 

A  fleeting  fashion's  grave ; 
The  winds  of  autumn  chill,  Leary, 

Destroy  us  flowers  of  spring, 
And  here  I  lie,  —  thrown  careless  by,  • 

An  unregarded  thing, 

Thus  glory  has  its  day,  Leary ; 

When  summer  suns  were  bright, 
The  reeking  apex,  comfort  bent, 

Found  in  us  cool  delight ; 
Alas !  while  we  enjoyed,  Leary, 

The  season's  honors  tall, 
We  little  knew  how  fleetly  flew 

The  hours  toward  owe  fall. 


266  LAY  OF  THE  LAST   WHITE  HAT. 

When  Fashion  dropt  her  "black,"  Leary, 

In  summer's  burning  realm, 
We  were  installed  in  favor  then,  — 

The  "  white  "  then  took  the  helm  ; 
Well  we  the  goddess  served,  Leary, 

And  ruled  our  little  day ; 
Now  "  blacks  "  again  resume  their  reign, 

And  we  are  "  cast  away." 

But,  though  we  vanish  now,  Leary, 

Time  must  reveal  our  might ; 
The  summer's  sun  will  strike  a  blow 

To  reinstate  the  white ; 
And  when  the  heated  poll,  Leary, 

In  lurid  beams  shall  melt, 
Then  shall  our  sway  again  have  way, 

Our  influence  be  felt. 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN. 

I  SAW  her  in  the  soda  shop, 

The  choicest  sweets  among, 
But  sweeter  were  the  words  that  fell 

In  music  from  her  tongue. 

Those  words  were  few  and  quickly  said, 

But  uttered  in  a  tone 
That  made  me  feel  the  queerest  thrill 

In  every  nerve  and  bone. 

A  red,  red  rose  was  archly  set 

Within  a  glossy  curl, 
And  sparkling  brilliants  met  around 

Her  little  throat  of  pearl ; 

And  love-provoking  were  her  lips, 

Of  richest  cherry  dyes,  — 
They  added  poison  to  the  barbs 

That  darted  from  her  eyes ; 

Those  barbs  around  me  keenly  glanced,  — 

Most  truly  sent,  alas !  — 
And  amorous  light  like  lightning  danced 

Around  the  soda  glass. 


268         THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

And  then  I  vowed  she  should  be  mine,  — 
I  'd  win  her  from  the  town, 

And  somewhere  on  a  railroad  line 
We  'd  settle  snugly  down ; 

We  'd  woodbines  have  about  our  door 

Trained  to  an  arch  above, 
And  chickens,  children,  pigs,  would  thrive 

In  sunshine  of  our  love. 

But,  as  my  castle  here  had  reached 

Its  climax  just  and  tall, 
Her  husband  stepped  upon  the  scene, 

And  overturned  it  all. 

"  The  melancholy  days  have  come," 

And  I  was  struck  in  June, 
But  "  my  poor  nerves  "  are  hardly  yet 

Restored  to  perfect  tune. 

Years  may  elapse,  —  no  miles  or  time 

Can  e'er  my  love  estrange, 
Although  a  wretched  dime  I  got 

From  her  in  making  change. 


CHARITY  AT   HOME. 

THE  door-bell  rings  with  a  terrible  clatter, 
And,  wondering  what  can  be  the  matter, 
I  rush  to  the  door,  with  my  face  all  soap, 

Lathered  and  moist  for  the  morning  shave, 
Widely  in  haste  the  portal  I  ope,  — 

'T  is  a  charity  boy  who  alms  doth  crave. 
I  give  him  a  dime  and  send  him  away, 

'T  were  better  than  standing  in  chilly  air ; 
And  what  so  soothing  to  conscience,  say, 

As  the  grateful  tone  of  the  beggar-boy's  prayer  ? 

The  door-bell  rings,  —  is  company  here  ? 
Step  and  see,  my  Margaret,  dear. 
More  charity,  say  ? 
Who  is  it,  pray  ? 
Why  and  how  are  they  coming  this  way  ? 

A  paper  is  thrust  in  my  open  hand, 

That  I  the  matter  may  understand  : 
How  Peter  Von  Swivel, 

With  a  face  like  the  d , 

Has  been  beset  all  his  life  with  evil ; 
How  the  burning  mountain, 

Hot  and  heavy, 
Poured  on  the  plain 

Its  molten  lava  j 


270 


How  escape  seemed  vain,  and,  no  clothes  to  his  back, 

He  left  all  behind  him,  alas,  and  alack ! 

And  when  safe  escaped  from  fire  and  wrack, 

The  idea  crossed  his  mind,  in  a  crack, 

That  for  freedom's  fair  land  he  'd  make  his  track ! 

Then  he  tells  me  in  German,  Italian  or  Greek, 

That  a  word  of  English  he  never  could  speak, 

That  to  work  he 's  not  able  because  he 's  so  weak, 

That  the  red  is  hectic  I  see  on  his  cheek, 

That  seven  young  Swivels  he  has  here  at  hand, 

Whom  he  will  produce,  at  my  command !  — 

I  give  him,  —  't  were  best,  without  a  doubt, 

Or  he  '11  beat  me,  some  night,  if  he  catch  me  out. 

The  door-bell  rings,  —  what  is  it  now  ? 

My  patience  is  gone  !  —  'T  is  a  woman,  I  vow ! 

"  Charity,  sir,  in  mercy,"  she  cries ; 

"  Give  me  food  that  my  child  may  live ; 
Here  on  my  breast  the  dear  one  dies,  — 

Give  me  some  food,  in  mercy,  give ! 

" '  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,' 
Kneeling,  I  asked  of  God  in  fear ; 

Then  I  wandered  forth  from  my  squalid  shed, 
And  heaven  has  turned  my  footsteps  here. 

"  My  husband's  life  was  worn  away, 
Toiling  and  adding  to  others'  wealth, 

For  which  but  our  living  from  day  to  day, 
With  ruined  peace  and  broken  health. 


CHABITY  AT  HOME.  271 

11  Sickness  came  on  him ;  he  felt  its  blight, 

Sorrowing  laid  he  his  head  to  die, 
For  us  was  his  prayer  through  day  and  night, 

For  us  was  his  last  and  dying  sigh. 

"  Now  begging  we  rove,  my  babe  and  I, 
And  bless  us,  pray,  in  our  heavy  lot ; 

There  is  not  a  gift  God  passeth  by, 
There  is  no  good  remembered  not." 

I  saw,  that  night,  the  boy's  pale  face 

Smile  on  me  with  angelic  grace  ; 

I  saw  the  poor  woman  kneeling  there, 

'T  was  for  me  she  knelt,  and  for  me  her  prayer ; 

And  old  Von  Swivel 

Bore  a  look  more  civil, 

And  did  n't  seem  half  as  much  like  the  d . 

Then  I  vowed  to  myself  I  must  always  believe 
'T  is  a  better  thing  to  give  than  receive. 


A  STORY  OF  A  SERENADE. 

A  PATHETIC  AND  MOVING}  LOVE  DITTY. 

LOVERS,  with  suspended  breath, 
Read  this  tale  of  love  and  death, 
And,  if  to  serenade  you  'd  roam, 
Know  first  if  your  love  's  at  home. 

On  a  last-summer  night, 
When  the  moon  shone  bright, 
And  the  weather  hot 
Drove  the  pulse  like  shot, 
Fond  lovers  were  walking, 
Sighing  and  talking ; 
Cits  toasting  and  fretting, 
And  fuming  and  sweating ; 
All  vigils  keeping, 
In  vain  wooing  sleeping. 

It  was  June,  sweet  June, 
And  out  'neath  the  moon 
A  lover  "  hot-pressed," 
With  his  passion  distressed, 
Would  fain  wake  an  air 
To  the  charms  of  his  fair. 


A  STORY  OP  A  SERENADE.  273 

He  sung  by  her  lattice,  — 

Her  room  window,  that  is,  — 

And,  melting  away 

With  the  heat  and  his  lay, 

This  was  the  song 

That  floated  along : 

SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

0,  come  to  your  window,  dearest ! 

And  list  to  the  lay  I  sing  ; 
My  love*  for  you  is  sincerest  — 

I  love  you  like  everything ! 
The  moon  all  my  ardor  is  waking, 

As  it  wakes  up  the  tides  of  the  ocean ; 
0,  tell  me  that  I  'm  not  mistaken, 

That  your  heart  feels  for  me  an  emotion ! 

Now,  dearest,  your  dad 's  in  the  city, 

Come  down  and  open  the  door ; 
0,  do  give  some  token  of  pity, 

Nor  let  me  in  anguish  implore ! 
While  here  on  the  boards  I  'm  a  sitting, 

The  dew  falls  fast  on  my  head, 
My  jacket  is  getting  a  wetting, 

And  the  hope  in  it 's  e'en  a'most  fled. 

Such  love  as  mine  you  've  ne'er  known,  love, 

I  've  never  half  told  it  before ; 
My  heart  shall  be  all  your  own,  love, 

If  you  will  just  open  the  door. 
18 


274  A  STORT  OF   A  SERENADE. 

I  love  not  for  jewels  or  plate,  love, 
My  passion  divides  not  with  pelf; 

And  credit  me  true  when  I  state,  love, 
No  female  I  love  like  yourself. 

Thus  he  sang  to  the  night,  — 
At  the  window  no  light, 
Nor  nightcap  white, 
Gladdened  his  sight ; 
No  voice  to  cheer  him, 
And  no  ear  to  hear  him, 
Or,  rather,  the  ear 
That  he  wanted  to  hear ; 
No  bright  eye  shining 
Cheered  his  repining, 
Its  gleam  compensating 
Amply  for  "  waiting ;  " 
No  vision  half  certain 
Stirred  the  snow-white  curtain ; 
When  weary,  down-hearted, 
He  home  again  started ; 
But  naught  could  he  borrow 
To  add  to  his  sorrow, 
When  face  to  face  met  he 
The  damsel  so  pretty, 
Who,  with  music  outpouring, 
He  'd  just  been  adoring, 
Talking  most  mellow 
With  a  dashing  big  fellow ! 


A   BTOKY  OJ   A  SERENADE.  275 

He  murmured  adieu, 
As  she  passed  from  his  view, 
And  went  home  to  bed, 
With  a  brick  on  his  head. 

Despair  then  seized  him, 

"  Schnaps  "  never  eased  him. 

There  came  one  morning 

To  the  crowner  a  warning, 

That  folks  had  just  found 

A  man  that  was  drowned. 
Then  this  was  the  verdict  the  crowner  made : 

That  his  aqueous  friend 

Had  come  to  his  end 
By  gin  and  water  and  a  serenade. 


ORACULAR  PEARLS  GATHERED  FROM 
THE  LIPS  OF  MRS.  PARTINGTON.* 

FIND  nine  peas  in  a  pod,  put  them  over  the  door, 

The  one  who  next  enters  is  yours  evermore. 

When  the  rats  rattle  and  kick  up  a  "  touse," 

'T  is  ominous  always  of  woe  to  the  house. 

When  the  dog  howls  and  moans  your  window  near  by, 

Be  certain  it  tells  you  somebody  will  die. 

Drop  a  knife  on  the  floor,  and  eight  times  in  nine 

You  '11  find  it  forebodeth  a  stranger  to  dine. 

When  your  nose  itcheth,  it  foretells  of  danger, 

Or  the  kissing  a  fool,  or  seeing  a  stranger. 

When  you  see  a  spark  shine  on  the  candle  bright, 

You  '11  get  a  letter  before  the  next  night. 

When  your  right  cheek  burneth,  as  if  in  a  flame, 

Depend  on  't  some  one  is  free  with  your  name. 

If  the  corns  twitch  and  twinge  which  your  pedals  deform, 

About  that  time  look  out  for  a  storm. 

If  a  black  cat  frolic  and  sport  with  her  tail, 

You  may  set  it  down  as  a  sign  of  a  gale. 

If  you  laugh  on  a  Monday  in  sportive  delight, 

You  will  certainly  cry  before  Saturday  night. 

*  The  aboye  are  warranted  always  to  transpire  as  predicted, some 
times. 


PEARLS  FROM   THE   L»S   OF   MRS.  PARTINGTON.       277 

Tip  over  the  salt,  and  the  fat 's  in  the  fire, 

Foreboding  all  trouble,  dissension  and  ire. 

Twirl  a  whole  apple-paring  over  your  head, 

'T  will  fall  the  initial  of  him  you  will  wed. 

Sit  on  a  table,  it 's  always  a  sign 

That  to  speedily  marry  your  wishes  incline. 

When  the  sparks  briskly  scatter  from  dry  beech-wood, 

There 's  some  one  somewhere  who  means  you  no  good. 


THE  LOST  ONE. 

HAST  thou  a  journey  gone,  my  brother, 

That  the  days  pursue  their  round, 
Bringing  to  our  wakeful  hearing 

Never  more  thy  voice's  sound  ?  — 
No  more  shall  we  see  the  beaming 

Of  thy  heart-fraught  radiant  smile  ; 
Angelic,  more  than  mortal  seeming, 

That  our  woes  did  all  beguile  ? 

We  miss  thee  when  the  evening  shadows 

Fall  sombrely  our  home  around ; 
We  miss  thee  when  the  autumn  breezes 

Rustle  the  leaves  with  whispering  sound, 
Like  spirit-voices  gently  speaking 

To  our  sad  bosoms,  torn  and  drear, 
Words  of  peace  to  hearts  nigh  breaking, 

Thou  hast  left  in  sorrow  here. 

We  miss  thee  when,  with  joyful  greeting, 
Friendship  draws  the  heart  along; 

We  miss  thy  spirit  in  the  meeting, 
We  miss  thee  in  the  happy  song. 


THE  LOST   ONE.  279 

Thy  seat  is  vacant,  —  sad  the  token,  — 
We  ne'er  shall  see  thy  form  again ; 

Friendship's  ties  have  all  been  broken,  — 
Sundered  is  life's  golden  chain ! 

The  journey  thou  hast  gone,  my  brother, 

Man  may  never  re-pursue ; 
Seasons  change  on  one  another, 

Life  can  nevermore  renew ; 
But,  though  from  our  home  departed, 

Though  we  mourn  that  we  're  bereft, 
Still  will  cheer  the  saddened  hearted 

The  bright  memory  thou  hast  left. 

Ever  we  that  memory  cherish, 

And  in  love's  undying  flame, 
Though  our  hopes  and  joys  may  perish, 

Thou  art  living  still  the  same  — 
Still,  as,  when  on  earth,  around  us 

Thy  mild  influence  was  cast, 
And  the  ties  that  early  bound  us 

Live  enduring  to  the  last. 


OVER   THE   WAY  LYRICS. 

The  "  sensitive  one  "  tunes  his  lyre  in  praise  of  loveliness  dis 
cerned  over  the  way,  and  sings : 

0,  BRIGHT  eyes  are  shining  there, 

Over  the  way, 
With  sweet  smiles  combining  there, 

Over  the  way, 
And  like  one  enchanted, 
By  fairy  spell  haunted, 
I  'm  gazing,  half  daunted, 

Over  the  way. 

Unheeding  I  'm  gazing  there, 

Over  the  way ; 
There  's  beauty  amazing  there, 

Over  the  way ! 

I  'm  pierced  through  and  through 
With  eyes  black  or  blue, 
Or  of  some  other  hue, 

Over  the  way. 

All  day  they  are  vexing  me, 

Over  the  way, 
Their  charms  are  perplexing  me, 

Over  the  way, 


OVER   THE   WAY   LYRICS.  281 

Till  this  heart  of  mine 
Fain  would  bow  at  their  shrine, 
And  all  own  divine, 
Over  the  way. 

The  "  sensitive  one  "  hears  the  sounds  of  music  over  the  way,  and 
he  rapturously  utters  himself : 

0,  sweet  the  note  ringing  there, 

Over  the  way, 
Blessed  thoughts  bringing  there, 

Over  the  way ; 
Sweet  voices  swelling 
Glad  tales  are  telling, 
All  gloom  dispelling, 

Over  the  way. 

Music  sweet  sounding  there, 

Over  the  way, 
Rapture  abounding  there, 

Over  the  way ; 
0,  cease  not  its  trilling, 
0,  cease  not  distilling 
That  melody  "  killing," 

Over  the  way. 

Sing  thou  that  strain  again, 

Over  the  way ; 
Let  me  not  ask  in  vain, 

Over  the  way ; 


282  OVEE   THE   WAY  LYRICS. 

'T  is  joy  to  my  spirit,  — 
My  heart  leaps  to  hear  it, 
Fair  minstrel,  still  cheer  it, 
Over  the  way ! 

A  bouquet  in  the  window  over  the  way  attracts  the  "sensitire 
one's"  attention,  and  he  compares: 

That  charming  bouquet  there, 

Over  the  way, 
Glows  bright  as  the  day,  there, 

Over  the  way ; 
But  bright  as  its  hues, 
Wet  in  Heaven's  own  dews, 
To  compare,  it  must  lose 

Over  the  way. 

For  the  blush  of  the  roses  there, 

Over  the  way, 
Less  beauties  discloses,  there, 

Over  the  way, 
Than  the  red  of  those  lips, 
Which  all  flowers  eclipse 
That  the  bee  ever  sips, 

Over  the  way. 

The  lilies  can't  shine  there, 

Over  the  way, 
'Gainst  charms  so  divine,  there, 

Over  the  way, 


OVER   THE   WAY  LYRICS.  283 

That  neck,  snowy  white, 
So  dazzles  my  sight, 
I'  m  half  killed,  or  quite, 
Here,  over  the  way. 

He  misses  a  favorite  face  from  the  window  over  the  way,  and  ex 
pends  himself  in  an  enthusiastic  ode 

TO   THE  ABSENT   ONE. 

I  look  for  thee,  dear  one,  in  vain, 

Thy  fairy  form  I  cannot  see  ; 
0,  that  my  eyes  might  rest  again 

On  what  was  late  so  dear  to  me ! 


Full  oft  I  've  stood  when  morning's  sun 
Effulgent  beamed  there  o'er  the  way, 

And  gazed,  like  an  enchanted  one, 
To  see  thy  needle  swiftly  play. 

And  day  by  day  I  've  vainly  sighed, 
As  on  thy  lap  thy  work  did  rest, 

And  with  sheer  envy  could  have  cried, 
To  think  those  trousers  were  so  blest. 

And  then,  when  thy  glance  met  mine  own, 
How  sweetly  beamed  thy  answering  smile ! 

A  kindlier  smile  hath  never  shone, 

Or  one  more  fraught  with  fun  the  while. 


284  OVZE   THE   WAY   LYRICS. 

My  heart  took  strength  amid  its  gloom, 

Thy  glance  the  sun  that  cheered  its  powers, 

Reviving  it  to  fresher  bloom, 

Like  spring's  warm  sunshine  on  the  flowers. 

The  "  Absent  One  !  "  that  cannot  be  ; 

For  though  by  fate  we  're  forced  to  part, 
Thou  ne'er  canst  absent  be  to  me,  — 

Thou  'rt  ever  present  in  my  heart ! 


THE  COROMANDEL'S  LAMENT. 

The  following,  supposed  to  represent  the  feelings  of  a  Coromandel 
chief  in  captivity,  was  written  for  music.  The  incident  is  mainly 
true. 

IN  the  Coromandel  country  I  was  born, 

Far  away,  far  away  ; 
And  happy  was  I  at  night  and  morn, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away  : 
Where  the  birds  sang  free 
In  the  banyan  tree, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  all  the  day. 

Ah,  fearful  was  the  fight  where  my  father  was  slain, 

Far  away,  far  away ; 
Where  first  I  felt  the  captor's  chain, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away  : 
Where  the  breeze  blows  free 
Over  land  and  over  sea, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away. 

Then  cruel  men  bore  me  the  wide  waters  o'er, 

Far  away,  far  away, 

From  kindred  and  home  I  may  never  see  more, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away : 
From  the  green  palm  tree 
That  overshadowed  me, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away. 


286  THE  COROMANDEL'S  LAMENT. 

But  tyrants  never  can  bind  our  dreams, 

Far  away,  far  away ; 
Again  in  my  sleep  the  warm  sun  gleams, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away ; 
Again  on  the  tree 
Sings  the  bird  for  me, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away. 

0,  welcome  the  hour  when  friendly  Death, 

Far  away,  far  away, 
Shall  waft  my  spirit  with  his  breath 
To  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away ; 
Ever  there  to  rest, 
In  freedom  blest, 
In  the  Coromandel  country,  far  away. 


A  PICTURE. 

OUR  Mistress  P.  had  taken  her  tea, 
And  had  cleared  up  nicely,  as  ought  to  be, 
And  then  beside  the  white  pine  table 
Had  seated  herself  quite  comfortable. 
The  plated  lamp  by  her  side  burned  bright, 
And  scattered  abroad  its  cheerful  light ; 
And  Mrs.  P.  sat  with  her  work  in  her  lap, 
Her  specs  high  up  on  the  roof  of  her  cap, 
With  her  eyes  upturned  to  the  opposite  wall, 
Where  hung  the  profile  of  Corporal  Paul. 
The  night  had  sedately  settled  down, 
And  quiet  rested  o'er  all  the  town ; 
Not  a  gust  of  wind  was  heard  to  mutter 
Above  the  chimney,  or  shake  a  shutter ; 
And  the  atmosphere  around  seemed  teeming 
With  all  the  elements  of  dreaming. 
And  Mistress  P.  sat  in  her  easy-chair, 
With  her  eyes  on  Paul  suspended  there, 
While  her  thoughts  were  wandering  everywhere. 
But  her  chin  soon  sank  to  a  graceful  rest, 
'Mid  the  folds  of  the  kerchief  on  her  breast ; 
Forgot  she  the  world,  its  cares  and  its  woes, 
In  the  grateful  calm  of  a  fireside  doze, 
And  fell  from  her  cap  her  specs  in  her  lap, 
As  Mrs.  P.  dropped  off  in  a  nap  ! 


A  WISH   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

Red  Beach,  Me.,  upon  St.  Andrew's  Bay,  is  most  charmingly  sit 
uated,  commanding  a  view  of  that  beautiful  sheet  of  water  for 
twenty  miles.  The  following  grew  out  of  a  night's  entertainment 
beneath  the  roof  of  an  early  schoolmate  of  the  writer: 

FAIR  Nature  here  convenes  her  joyous  court, 
And  reigns  with  sylvan  splendor  o'er  the  scene ; 

Her  banners  gayly  in  the  trees  disport, 

And  bird  and  wave  and  foliage  praise  their  queen. 

'Twere  blissful  here  to  spend  life's  little  day, 
To  live  'mid  beauties  that  enchanting  press, 

Where  charms  salute  the  eyes  where'er  they  stray, 
And  everything  conspires  the  heart  to  bless. 

Below,  far-reaching,  gleams  the  watery  path, 
Whose  gentle  story  falls  upon  my  ear ; 

And  graceful  is  the  theme  the  water  hath, 
Which  my  soothed  spirit  bows  itself  to  hear. 

My  friend,  thus  happy  in  your  blest  estate, 
May  no  obtrusive  care  disturb  the  scene, 

But  Peace,  fair  spirit,  ever  on  you  wait, 

And  crown  your  passing  hours  with  joy  serene ! 


A  WISH  OP  FRIENDSHIP.  289 

'T  is  friendship's  holiest  prayer  that  Heaven  may  send 
A  heart  to  feel  the  blessings  round  you  cast, 

That  your  own  soul  with  Nature's  charmg  may  blend, 
And  live  in  holy  union  to  the  last ! 


19 


A  PROPHECY  FOR  FIFTY-TWO; 

THAT  WAS   NOT  ALL  VERIFIED,   BUT  WHICH   SHOULD   HATE   BEEN. 

A  "  TO-DO  "  you  have  made  about  Kossuth,  — 

I  admit  he  is  worthy  your  praise, 
But  that  I  'm  a  greater  than  he 

You  will  learn,  perhaps,  one  of  these  days. 
I  '11  just  put  my  carpet-bag  down, 

And  show  you  the  whole  of  it  through ; 
There  are  rare  things  and  mighty  to  see 

In  the  budget  of  young  Fifty -two. 

They  are  not  all  fair-weather  goods, 

Are  not  all  sugar  and  honey ; 
There  's  much  that  is  stormy  and  dark, 

With  a  generous  spice  of  the  sunny. 
Here  's  a  sword  for  the  brave  and  the  strong, 

Its  metal  is  tried  and  is  true, 
And  use  will  be  found  for  its  steel 

In  the  strivings  of  great  Fifty -two. 

Its  gleam  shall  be  seen  from  afar, 

And  Freedom's  brave  sons  cheer  its  ray, 

And  sweep  with  the  besom  of  war 
Old  Tyranny's  strongholds  away ; 


A  PKOPHECT  FOB  FIFTY-TWO.  291 

Then  man  shall  stand  up  in  his  might, 

With  energy  sturdy  and  true, 
And  vow  e'er  to  cling  to  the  right 

Imparted  by  blest  Fifty-two. 

Here 's  a  promise  of  plenty  and  peace, 

Rich  gifts,  I  '11  scatter  them  free, 
Strong  ships  shall  stagger  with  wealth, 

From  every  isle  of  the  sea  ; 
Your  garners  I  '11  crowd  to  the  roof, 

Your  pathway  with  riches  I  '11  strew, 
Till,  blest  to  repletion,  you  '11  say 

You  are  glad  to  have  seen  Fifty-two. 

But  here  is  a  shadow  of  woe, 

Like  a  pall  most  sombre  and  dark ; 
There  joy,  on  life's  stormy  wave, 

Is  a  ruined  and  desolate  bark  : 
Here  the  flowers  that  bloom  by  the  way 

Are  nothing  but  cypress  and  rue ; 
There  many  sad  tokens  will  mark 

The  ravage  of  drear  Fifty-two. 

Here  speaketh  the  voice  of  the  storm, 

And  felt  is  the  hurricane's  breath ; 
There  Pestilence  reareth  its  form, 

And  guideth  the  arrows  of  Death, 
Here  hearts  are  stilled  —  how  still ! 

Which  late  such  lovingness  knew ; 
There  darkling  fears,  and  sighs  and  tears, 

Note  the  passage  of  Fifty-two. 


292  A  PROPHECY  FOR  FIFTY-TWO. 

Here 's  a  crisis  for  loving  hearts, 

The  kindling  of  Hymen's  blaze, 
And  Cupid's  arrows  and  darts, 

And  flower-crowned  wedding  days. 
And  babies,  and  cradles,  and  such, 

Come  merrily  into  view, 
And  infant  voices  make  loud  acclaim 

Of  the  joys  of  Fifty-two. 

0,  a  budget  most  rare  is  mine, 

Brim-full  of  goods  and  ills, 
From  the  destiny  great  of  states 

To  the  settling  of  tradesman's  bills ; 
And  the  plans  of  old  Fifty-one 

I  am  bound  to  see  "  put  through," 
For  the  seeds  he  sowed  and  guarded 

Shall  blossom  in  Fifty-two. 

But  hark !  my  work  must  begin ; 

I  hear  the  old  year's  sigh, 
As  he  turns  himself  in  his  bed, 

And  makes  a  motion  to  die  ! 
My  mission  I  must  perform, 

And  my  varied  gifts  must  strew, 
Now  give  a  good-by  to  Fifty-one, 

And  a  welcome  to  Fifty -two. 


CORA  BELL.—  A  BALLAD. 


FOB  MUSIC. 


AH,  Cora  Bell  !    Fair  Cora  Bell  ! 

A  brighter  never  smiled  than  Cora  ; 
I  loved  her  as  no  tongue  could  tell  — 

As  none  I  'd  ever  loved  before  her  ; 
Her  cheek  was  like  the  flush  of  day, 

Her  eye  as  blue  as  Heaven  o'er  her, 
Her  breath  was  sweet  as  flowers  in  May, 

Ah,  radiant  was  my  charming  Cora  ! 
Sweet  Cora  Bell  !  Cora  Bell  ! 

Dear  Cora  Bell  !   Loved  Cora  Bell  ! 

My  gentle,  trusting,  loving  Cora  ! 
Her  influence  on  my  pathway  fell, 

Like  blessed  light,  —  the  heart's  aurora! 
My  life  seemed  cast  amid  the  flowers, 

My  lot  to  spread  their  bloom  before  her, 
And,  living  on  through  halcyon  hours, 

In  happiness  lived  I  and  Cora  ! 
Dear  Cora  Bell  !   Cora  Bell  ! 


294  COKA   BELL. A   BALLAD. 

Sweet  Cora  Bell !   Bright  Cora  Bell ! 

The  angels  claimed  from  me  my  Cora, 
To  go  above  with  them  to  dwell, 

From  my  fond  heart  which  did  adore  her ; 
She  drooped, — I  saw  my  fair  star  wane,  — 

In  saddest  grief  did  I  deplore  her, 
And  long  't  will  be  ere  I  restrain 

The  bitter  tears  I  shed  for  Cora  ! 
Lost  Cora  Bell !   Cora  Bell! 

Dear  Cora  Bell !  Blest  Cora  Bell ! 

My  loved,  my  lost,  my  angel  Cora ; 
Her  voice  now  joins  the  rapturous  swell 

Of  angel-harps  around  and  o'er  her. 
Yet  when  in  grief —  my  heart  all  riven  — 

I  on  my  bended  knees  implore  her, 
The  sweet  hope  to  my  soul  is  given, 

In  bliss  above  I  '11  meet  my  Cora  ! 
Blest  Cora  Bell !   Cora  Bell ! 


WINTER  BLOSSOMS. 

OF  brilliant  hue, 

Sparkling  with  dew, 
Spring-flowers  blush  in  the  sunlight  glow ; 

Their  rich  array 

Strews  the  path  of  May, 
While  the  air  is  glad  with  perfumes  they  throw. 

The  summer  is  bright 

With  forms  of  delight, 
And  Heaven's  own  glory  is  pictured  in  earth ; 

The  summer-flowers, 

Like  summer-showers, 
Revive  old  joys  and  give  new  ones  birth. 

But  when  Winter  drear 

Is  king  of  the  year, 
And  sheds  from  his  hand  on  tree  and  spray 

His  blossoms  of  white, 

So  pearly  bright, 
It  is  richer  to  me  than  the  glory  of  May. 


296 


WIXTEK   BLOSSOMS. 


0  white,  all  white, 

Like  a  bride  at  night, 
Are  the  blossoms  of  winter  which  deck  the  bough, 

And  they  flash  as  gay, 

In  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
As  the  wreath  which  crowns  the  spring's  young  brow. 


UNCONSIDERED   TRIFLES.  297 


MEDICAL. 

WHEN  Stuffle's  health  by  luxury  had  flown, 

Changed  grew  his  cheek  and  changed  his  voice's  tone; 

He  begged  the  doctor  his  disease  to  quell, 

But  yet  by  gentle  means  to  make  him  well. 

"  Give  up  your  feasting,"  Galen  made  reply. 

The  spirit  fled  from  Stuffle's  pleading  eye ; 

"  I'  faith,"  said  he,  and  thought  upon  his  larder, 

"  I  know  no  medicine  that  could  be  harder. 

Bring  on  your  jalaps,  ipecac  and  squills, 

Your  salts  and  draughts,  cantharides  and  pills ; 

I  '11  take  'em  all,  as  I  'm  a  living  sinner,  — 

'T  were  easier  far  than  giving  up  my  dinner !  " 


A   SIDE-WALK   SCENE. 

0,  STURDY  man  !  0,  sturdy  man ! 

What  tomb  is  this,  I  pray, 
That  openeth  here  its  ponderous  jaws 

Unto  the  light  of  day  ? 
Hath  Death  annulled  the  little  lease 

Of  mortal  man's  estate  ? 
Is  it  for  manes  of  stricken  ones 

That  here  and  thus  ye  wait  ? 
"  0  no,  my  darlin' ;  this,  you  see, 

An't  no  tomb,  bless  your  soul ! 
But 't  is  a  trap  where  people  stows 

Away  their  wood  and  coal." 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  READERS. 

KIND  friends,  I'm  always  happy  when  you  're  so; 

It  is  my  study,  wheresoe'er  I  go, 

To  gladden,  if  I  can,  by  act  or  thought, 

The  circle  in  whose  limit  I  am  brought. 

I  love  a  smile  much  better  than  a  sigh  ; 

I  love  to  see  a  bright,  mirth-beaming  eye, 

That  speaks  a  heart  where  naught  of  gloom  or  care 

Can  present  peace  and  cheerfulness  impair ; 

I  love  to  hear  the  music  of  a  laugh 

Better  than  dismal  meanings,  more  than  half; 

And  can  I  but  one  joyful  thrill  awake, 

Feel  that  one  smile  has  kindled  for  my  sake, 

Have  kind  eyes  beam  upon  me  in  their  mirth,  — 

A  bright  endorsement  of  my  efforts'  worth,  — 

Have  warm  hearts  welcome  me  with  kindly  glow, 

Without  hypocrisy  the  veil  below, 

Have  woman  clasp  my  hand  in  warm  embrace, 

And  childhood  gladden  as  it  sees  my  face, 

The  aged  wiled  a  moment  from  their  pain, 

Smiling  in  dreams  that  they  are  young  again ; 

Could  I — but,  ah  !  the  fond  delusions  fly  ! 

These  may  be  left  to  worthier  than  I. 

But  should  one  smile  a  moment  radiant  flit 

O'er  the  dull  pages  I  have  herein  writ, 

A  pride  I  'd  feel,  to  future  care  a  bane, 

And  bless  the  thought  that  I  'd  not  tried  in  vain. 


SONNETS: 


PUBLISHED  AT  VARIOUS   TIMES,   UNDER  THE  TITLE   OP   "  WIDE- 

SWARTH   SONNETS," — THE   NAME,  "  WIDESWARTH," 

INDICATING   THEIR  SCOPE,   EMBRACING   THE 

EXTREMES  OF  GRAVE  AND   GAY. 


SONNETS. 


i. 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  TJT.T.TR. 

A  TRUTHFUL  page  is  childhood's  lovely  face, 

Whereon  sweet  Innocence  has  record  made,  — 
An  outward  semblance  of  the  young  heart's  grace, 

Where, truth,  and  love,  and  trust,  are  all  portrayed ! 
0,  blessed  childhood  !     Like  the  wakening  day, 

The  auroral  flush  bespeaks  thy  rising  sun, 
And  spreads  a  roseate  tint  about  thy  way, 

And  Hope's  gay  blossoms  open  one  by  one. 
Sweet  Lillie  !     As  I  gaze  upon  thy  brow, 

I  feel  my  heart  expanding  into  prayer, 
That  happiness  may  e'er  maintain  as  now 

The  truthful  seeming  it  exhibits  there  ; 
May  after-life  no  bitterness  impart, 
But  lie,  as  now,  like  sunshine  round  thy  heart ! 


302  SONNETS. 

II. 

D030STIC. 

IT  smiles !    Around  its  dimpling  mouth  see  play 

The  first  glad  token  of  a  dawning  love, 
Like  the  bright  glow  of  newly-wakening  day, 

Or  some  new  glory  breaking  from  above. 
It  smiles  !  0,  rapture  !  and  the  mother's  heart 

Beats  with  quick  pleasure  its  bright  gleam  to  see, 
Springing  from  dawning  consciousness,  whose  part 

In  after  years  her  crowning  joy  may  be. 
There 's  not  a  bright  creation  under  heaven, 

There 's  not  a  pure  in  heaven  or  in  earth, 
There 's  not  an  ecstasy  to  mortals  given, 

There 's  not  a  thing  of  most  exalted  worth, 
Can,  in  the  mother's  plenitude  of  joy, 
Excel  that  first  smile  of  her  darling  boy ! 


III. 

MUSIC. 

I  LOVE  to  sit  here  in  the  Music  Hall, 
And  hear  the  choruses  of  mighty  song 
Arise  and  swell,  and  pour  themselves  along, 

In  fancied  tracery  upon  the  wall ; 

And  rapture  clothes  the  melody  with  form,  — 
A  lofty  mountain  of  stupendous  sound, 


SONNETS.  303 

That  bears  deep  thunder  in  its  breast  profound, 
And  gives  them  utterance  with  harmonious  storm; 
Raising  its  height  far  up  the  fretted  arch, 
A  glittering  circlet  round  its  lofty  head, 
From  whence  effulgent  rays  below  are  shed, 
To  aid  my  vision  in  its  upward  march. 
The  chorus  stops,  —  the  mountain  is  a  plain,  — 
The  circlet  naught  but  plain  gas-lights  again. 


IV. 

PHILOSOPHY. 

LET  's  take  the  world  just  as  it  jogs  along, 
Nor  grumble  at  the. ills  which  may  assail, 
But  trim  our  ship  to  the  impending  gale, 

And  watch  her  well  the  breakers  rude  among  ; 

Ne'er  growl  with  envious  spite  at  others'  fun 
When  our  horizon  bears  no  gleam  of  joy, 
Or  when  misfortune  with  a  dark  alloy 

Causes  our  cup  with  sadness  to  o'er-run. 

Bather  "  Old  Uncle  Ned's  "  example  see;  , 

Who,  when  rude  Time  his  teeth  away  did  take, 
And  he  could  no  more  grind  the  loved  corn-cake, 

With  resignation  "  let  the  corn-cake  be." 

How  can  it  help  bad  luck  to  growl  and  cry  ? 

Be  patient,  —  for  our  turn  may  come  by  'n'  by. 


304  SONNETS. 

V. 

CHURCH  MUSIC. 

AH,  dearly  do  I  love  the  organ's  pealing, 
With  psalm-tune  holy  or  with  anthem  grand, 
The  while  I  drum  the  measure  with  my  hand, 

And  gaze  devoutly  at  the  frescoed  ceiling, 

Where  modern  Angelos  have  spent  their  skill, 
And  mimic  niche  and  pillar  make  display, 
And  shadows  fling  themselves  in  every  way, 

In  independence  of  the  sun's  high  will. 

I  love  to  hear  the  voice  and  organ  blending, 
And  pouring  on  the  air  a  cloud  of  sound, 
Until,  as  with  a  spell,  my  soul  is  bound, 

And  every  faculty  is  heavenward  tending. 
Bang  goes  a  cricket !  —  Squalls  a  child,  sonorous, 
And  earth's  harsh  discord  drowns  the  heavenly  chorus. 


VI. 

TO  SPRING. 


0,  BEAUTEOUS  Spring !     I  ope  my  window  wide, 
To  breathe  the  sweetness  of  thy  vernal  air, 

While  quick  the  pulses  in  their  channels  glide, 
The  vestal  favors  of  the  spring  to  share ; 


SONNETS.  305 

I  hear  the  lambs  make  music  on  the  hills, 

I  see  the  violets  in  the  verdant  fields, 
I  catch  the  perfume  that  the  bland  air  fills 

From  myriad  blossoms  that  the  season  yields. 
The  shooting  vine  hangs  trembling  in  the  breeze, 

And  buds  luxuriant  grace  the  teeming  bough, 
The  robin  sings  his  song  amid  the  trees, 

And  Nature  pours  her  notes  melodious  now. 
0,  Spring !     Thy  beauty  admiration  moves, 
But  —  but  —  but  —  Mary,  bring  my  cloak  and  gloves ! 


VII. 

THE   SNOW. 

Now  white  and  beautiful  creation  lies, 

Nursing  its  struggling  germs  beneath  the  veil  ; 
On  rushing  wings  the  fairy  snow-flake  flies, 

Urged  by  the  breath  of  the  on-hurrying  gale. 
Now  jingling  bells  thrill  wildly  on  the  ear, 

As  vying  coursers  dart  along  the  way, 
Now  rise  in  chorus  tones  of  blithest  cheer, 

As  beams  the  moon  with  calm,  untroubled  ray. 
I  bless  the  snow!     How  fair  its  glittering  sheen, 

How  pure  and  holy  is  its  pearly  light ! 
Clad  in  its  robe,  the  earth  looks  like  a  queen 

In  the  chaste  vesture  of  her  bridal  night. 
'T  is  passing  fair,  —  yet,  hardly  fair  is  that,  — 
An  avalanche,  confound  it,  crushes  in  my  hat ! 
20 


rt>  SOXXET3. 

VIII. 

IN  STRANGE  COMPANY. 

'T  WAS  In  a  'bus  we  met,  Thanksgiving  Day, 
And  side  by  side  we  sat,  and  we  alone  ! 
The  driver  did  n't  see  us  from  his  throne, 

And  everybody  looked  the  other  way. 

But  she  was  chaste  as  ice,  and  pure  as  snow, 
And  I  could  vow,  though  I  knew  not  her  name, 
Heproach  ne'er  dared  to  meddle  with  her  fame,  - 

I  pride  myself  a  virtuous  dame  to  know. 

She  sweetly  whispered  me  that  she  felt  giddy, 
And,  with  a  gentle  motion  most  divine, 
She  laid  the  whitest  little  hand  on  mine, 

And  sat  up  closer,  just  to  keep  .her  steady. 

Such  confidence  as  this  you  '11  rarely  meet 

In  earth's  unsocial  round ;  —  it  was  a  treat ! 


IX. 

HUNGARY. 

POOB  Hungary !  Our  hearts  are  full  of  her ; 
Our  sympathizing  bosoms  quick  unlock,  — 
We  pay  our  money  out  for  Kossuth  stock,  - 

And  all  our  warm  emotions  are  astir  ! 

Get  up  a  concert,  —  swift  the  tickets  go,  — 
The  proceeds  are  for  Hungary  oppressed, 


SONNETS.  307 

The  purse  respondeth  to  the  ardent  breast, 

And  dollars  for  Hungarian  dolors  flow  ! 

But,  ah  !  conviction  comes  too  late  to  save ; 
We,  not  the  tickets,  't  is,  that  have  been  sold, 
And  rolls  upon  our  mind  the  comfort  cold 

That  we  've  been  diddled  by  a  hungry  knave ! 

Alas  !  poor  Hungary,  still  we  'd  aid  her  cause, 

However  much  we  may  condemn  Herr  Krausz. 


X. 

ON  A  RECENT  MARRIAGE. 
JENNY  LDU>'S. 

IN  ancient  Bible  times,  —  we  read  the  story 

In  Numbers,  chapter  'leven,  —  there  befell 
Among  the  Jewish  tribes  a  famine  sorry, 

And  all  the  Hebrews  threatened  to  rebel. 
Then  Heaven,  aweary  with  their  ceaseless  cavil, 

Raised  up  a  wind,  —  most  marvellous  of  gales,  — 
And  strewed  for  miles,  on  the  encircling  gravel, 

Myriads  on  myriads  of  plumpest  quails. 
The  moral  of  the  tale  I  '11  not  pursue, 

Because  disastrous  did  the  sequel  prove,  — 
I  merely  wish  to  show  the  modern  Jew* 

Revealed  to  us  in  epicurean  love ; 
The  ancient  Hebrew  feasted  on  his  quail, 
The  modern  Jew  secures  a  Nightingale. 

*  When  Jenny  land  was  married  it  was  understood  that  Herr  Otto 
was  a  Jew. 


308  SONNETS. 

XI. 

TRUST  NOT  APPEARANCES. 

"  0  WHAT  a  goodly  outside  falsehood  hath  !  " 
A  smile  may  hide  a  cankering  heart  below, 
A  sunken  pit  lie  covered  by  the  snow, 

A  serpent  lurk  in  the  most  flowery  path. 

Let  not  appearances  alone  delight  you, 
A  pretty  woman  oft  may  scold  like  fury, 
A  jack-o'-lantern  to  a  pit  allure  ye, 

A  dog  with  kindly  seeming  yet  may  bite  you. 

I  passed  a  church,  arid  workmen  busy  were 
Repairing  and  improving  its  old  style ; 
I  stood  a  moment,  and  I  could  but  smile 

To  see  a  mighty  pillar  lying  there, 

Bearing  the  semblance  of  the  hardest  granite, 

But  proving  pine  when  nearer  I  did  scan  it. 


XII. 

MOONSHINE. 


ROLL  on,  bright  moon  !     And  if  we  bid  or  not, 
It  would,  undoubtedly,  as  ever  shine. 
How  sweetly  on  yon  bank  its  beams  recline, 

A  radiant  glory  hallowing  the  spot, 


SONNETS.  309 

Bevealing  rock  and  shrub  in  mystic  show ; 
The  tall  trees  rising  steeple-like,  and  high, 
Their  forms  disclosed  against  the  western  sky, 

And  flowers,  moonlight-tinted,  'mid  the  glow ; 

Revealing  lovers,  vowing  by  that  moon 
Eternal  fealty,  everlasting  truth, 
And  hosts  of  pretty  oaths  impelled  by  youth, 

Rapidly  made,  and  broken  full  as  soon ; 

Revealing,  too,  'mid  country  autumn  airs, 

Young  men  and  roguish  maidens  "  hooking  "  pears. 


XIII. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

FRIENDSHIP  !  Time-honored  and  romantic  name ! 
Who  hath  not  loved  it  that  hath  chanced  to  sit 
Where  Forrest  roared  it  to  a  gaping  pit, 

When  Damon  gave  himself  to  feed  its  flame. 

But  Damons  now-a-days  who  hap  to  live 
Are  men  of  quite  a  different  sort  of  mould, 
And  buying  oftener  than  "  getting  sold," 

Asking  more  always  than  they  wish  to  give. 

An  all-exacting  thing  is  Friendship  now  ! 
Favors  men  ask  and  liberties  men  take, 
And  things  enacted  are  for  Friendship's  sake 

That  wildest  Enmity  would  not  allow. 

It  is  no  use  the  sentiment  to  fetter,  — 

The  fewer  friends  one  has  by  far  the  better. 


310  SONNETS. 

| 

XIV. 

TONGUES. 

THE  tongue  is  small,  yet  of  a  mighty  force ! 
The  Apostle  James  a  homily  once  writ, 
Wherein  this  useful  member  he  did  hit,  — 

A  married  man  he  must  have  been,  of  course. 

A  shrewish  woman,  with  a  wicked  tongue, 
Will  strive  to  set  a  neighborhood  in  blaze, 
A  venom  dwelling  in  each  word  she  says, 

And  poison  scatter  peaceful  homes  among. 

A  tattling  man,  —  a  man  in  form  alone,  — 
Will  prove  a  curse  where'er  he  chance  to  light, 
Casting  o'er  tranquil  scenes  a  mildew  blight, 

And  changing  kindred  hearts  to  hostile  stone. 

Of  all  the  tongues  that  I  have  ever  known, 

That  to  an  ox-cart  was  the  stillest  one. 


XV. 

WEDESWARTH  ON  HIS  PLANTATION. 

THESE  are  my  grounds !  —  a  monarch  here  I  'm  standing ! 
T  is  here  for  me  the  tiger-lilies  bloom, 
'T  is  here  the  lavender  sheds  its  perfume, 

'T  is  here  the  dahlia  towers  with  form  commanding. 


SONNETS.  311 

My  grape-vines,  high  o'erarching  'bove  my  head, 
Wave  their  full  clusters  in  my  longing  eye, 
And  promise  purple  ripeness  by  and  by, 

When  a  few  moons  their  changes  shall  have  sped. 

0,  't  is  a  triumph  thus  to  tread  the  soil, 

And  feel  that  none  but  me  herein  bears  sway  ! 
I  envy  not  the  rich,  who,  day  by  day, 

For  dollars'  silvery  music  delve  and  toil ! 

See,  in  yon  tuft  of  balm  a  honey-bee,  — 

Its  song  is  music,  more  than  dollars'  chink,  to  me. 


XVI. 

OPENING  THE  MUMMY. 

UNVEIL,  sweet  priestess  !  waken  as  thou  'rt  bidden, 
That  "  the  subscribers  "  may  behold  thy  beauties, 
And  wonder  at  thy  narrative,  if  true  't  is, 

As  't  is  declared  to  them  by  Mr.  Gliddon. 

What  antique  fancy  in  thy  look  reposes ; 

Perhaps  thou  'st  walked  with  Abram,  venerated, 
Or  with  young  Joseph  chatted,  consecrated, 

Or  in  that  distant  day  ta'en  tea  with  Moses. 

Great  Mummy  !  wonderingly  we  thee  behold, 
But  thy  old  flesh  is  hard  as  nether  stone, 
And  for  a  wife  we  'd  choose  a  softer  one, 

For  such  as  tjiou  would  make  one's  blood  run  cold. 

Surely,  old  lass,  you  're  safe  from  Time's  aggression, 

His  ancient  teeth  on  you  can't  make  impression. 


312  SONNETS. 

XVII. 

LEVITY. 

JUST  think,  one  moment,  what  a  sight  't  would  be 
To  witness  sober  manhood  mad  at  play, 
Trundling  a  hoop  along  the  public  way, 

Or  pitching  cents,  and  screaming  in  his  glee  ! 

Or  on  the'frog-pond  sailing  tiny  boats, 
Or  on  the  common  flying  airy  kites, 
Or  waging  mimic  wars  in  snow-ball  fights, 

Yelling  defiance  with  shrill  treble  notes. 

What  to  imagine  !     Yet  did  ye  ne'er  hear 
The  big  church  organ,  consecrate  to  psalm, 
Whistling  profaner  tunes  without  a  qualm, 

That  sound  to  holy  ears  confounded  queer, — 

Dashing  off  wildly  with  a  diddle-diddle, 

Just  like  some  little  inconsiderate  fiddle  ? 


XVIII. 
HOPE. 


THROUGH  young  eyes  look  we  out  on  life's  highway,  — 
The  sun  doth  gladden  it,  and  cooling  streams 
Murmur  like  pleasant  voices  in  our  dreams, 

And  pleasure  beckons  on  with  aspect  gay  ; 


SONNETS.  313 

Bright  joys  peep  out  from  every  covert  lying, 
To  lure  the  unwary  to  remote  retreats, 
Holding  up  promises  of  rarer  sweets, 
Which  as  pursued  evade  the  grasp  by  flying  ! 
Bright  hues  soon  vanish  and  the  sky  grows  dark, 
The  path  uncertain  cheats  the  weary  eye, 
Realities  beset  we  may  not  fly, 
And  hope  's  diminished  to  the  merest  spark,  — 
Melteth  away,  like  Whipple's  "  views,"  and  leaves 
Joy's  phantoms  only,  o'er  which  memory  grieves. 


XIX. 

LOVE. 

LIFT  up  your  hand,  and  tell  the  angry  tide 

Thus  far  to  go,  nor  dare  to  break  its  bound  ; 
Fix  ye  a  limit  for  the  scope  of  pride, 

Or  bind  it,  humbled,  to  the  very  ground ; 
Check  young  ambition  in  its  fiery  course, 

When  the  prized  goal  is  just  within  its  reach ; 
Silence  the  tempest,  with  its  accent  hoarse, 

And  bellowing  winds  a  mild  submission  teach;  — 
These  ye  may  do,  and  everything  beside, 

In  human  province,  mother  earth  above, 
Excepting  one  that  rule  has  e'er  defied,  — 

The  heart's  own  choosing  in  concerns  of  love ! 
The  heart  will  have  its  way,  whate'er  betide  it, 
As  he  and  you  and  I  and  thousands  more  have  tried  it. 


314  SONNETS. 

XX. 

FAME. 

WHAT  's  Fame  ?     I  ask  —  is  it  to  live  in  story, 

That  after  days  may  eulogize  thy  deed, 
Blazing  upon  a  scroll  with  faded  glory, 

Bragging  of  grandeur  long  since  gone  to  seed  ? 
Is  it  to  raise  a  church,  or  found  a  college, 

That,  ages  hence,  when  builders'  works  decay, 
From  deep  in  earth,  long  hid  from  human  knowledge, 

Thy  name  once  more  turn  up  to  light  of  day  ? 
Is  it  to  fix  thy  mark  where  centuries'  surges 

Wage  tireless  wars  on  its  undying  line, 
When  from  their  rimy  billows  it  emerges 

And  sparkles  with  a  brilliancy  divine  ? 
I  climbed  a  hill  for  fame,  the  way  /  "  come  it," 
And  writ  my  name  in  granite  on  its  summit. 


XXI. 

A  QUESTION  ANSWERED. 

HA.  !  a  red  banner  from  the  Old  South  swinging ! 

What  means  this  flaming  "  meteor  of  war  "  ? 

Have  outward  troubles  or  intestine  jar 
Good  men,  but  zealous,  been  to  conflict  bringing  ? 


SONNETS.  315 

Or  is 't  in  memory  of  those  olden  days, 
When  horses  occupied  the  cushioned  pew, 
And  contemplatively  their  oats  did  chew, 

Bight  on  the  spot  where  Deacon  Snodgrass  prays  ? 

The  red  flag  hoisted  on  these  sacred  walls ! 
Banner  piratical,  why  swing  ye  there, 
With  scarlet  levity,  on  holy  air  ? 

On  Christian  heads  thy  lurid  shadow  falls. 

I  have  it,  —  Thompson  sells  some  pews  to-day, 

And  that 's  his  flag  that  flaunts  above  my  way. 


XXII. 

FAITH. 

IF  you  have  faith,  so  holy  writings  say, 
You  may  command  the  sturdy  sycamine  tree 
To  leave  its  quarters  for  a  voyage  to  sea, 

And  straightway  will  the  obedient  thing  obey. 

Just  so  it  is  when  ill,  like  mountain  summit, 
Shall  rise  before  us  in  the  road  of  life, 
Let  us  press  on  with  faith,  and  brave  the  strife,  — 

With  this  we  '11  rise  above  and  overcome  it. 

Ne'er  doubting,  like  the  preaching  fool  of  yore, 
Who  told  his  wondering,  simple-moulded  flock 
That,  had  he  faith,  a  neighboring  mass  of  rock 

The  weakest  one  could  hurl  a  rod  from  shore  ; 

But,  scanning  it  again,  began  to  doubt  it, 

And  muttered,  "Faith,  though,  I  don't  know  about  it." 


316  SONNETS. 

XXIII. 

BIDING. 

WHY  should  the  rich  despise  the  poor  ?  —  ay,  true, 
Why  should  they,  to  be  sure  ?     And  why  should  I, 
While  in  my  coach,  look  down  on  passers-by 

With  scornful  arrogance,  as  some  folks  do  ? 

I  will  not ;  Jehu  shall  have  ample  sway, 
I  '11  let  him  take  up  all  who  choose  to  ride ; 
My  coach  has  room  enough  on  every  side, 

And  he  shall  fill  it,  please  he,  day  by  day. 

Come  in,  my  crippled  friend,  we  '11  find  you  place  ; 
And  you,  stout  lady,  slow  with  fat  and  age, 
Here  you  the  ills  of  gout  or  corns  may  'suage ; 

Oome  in,  sweet  damsel  with  the  blooming  face  ; 

Come  in ;  what 's  this  ?   What,  hold  your  hand  for  pay? 

A  "  bus,"  i'  faith !  thus  grandeur's  dreams  decay  ! 


XXIV. 

DEVOTION". 


DEVOTION  's  that  where,  reverently  bending, 
The  full  heart  holily  itself  outpours, 
Forgetting  all,  save  that  which  it  adores, 

Spirit  and  scene  in  one  sweet  union  blending ; 


SONNETS.  317 

Not  to  glance  sideways  with  a  truant  eye,  — 
While  holy  words  with  fluent  promptness  slip, 
With  ready  eloquence,  from  off  the  lip,  — 
Watching  each  form  or  thing  that  flitteth  by. 
I  knew  a  deacon  once,  a  holy  man, 

Who  highest  sat  at  church  among  the  saints, 
And  freest  judged  by  all  of  human  taints, 
Who  'gainst  all  follies  laid  perpetual  ban,  — 
Forgetful  quite  of  sermon,  psalm  and  prayers, 
Watching  two  younglings  courting  on  the  stairs. 


XXV. 

SUNDERED  FRIENDSHIP. 

'T  is  a  sad  lesson  mortals  have  to  learn, 

That  hearts  will  change  and  turn  to  very  stone, 
And  where  the  blessed  light  of  friendship  shone 

The  fell  and  deadly  fires  of  hate  may  burn. 

0,  blessed  Friendship  !  genius  of  our  youth, 
That,  all  unselfish,  pledged  itself  in  need, 
I  think  on  thee,  and  my  sad  heart  doth  bleed 

To  find  thee  fallen  from  thy  primal  truth. 

0,  bitter  is  it  to  pass  coldly  by 

The  friend  of  early  boyhood's  happy  days, 
Whose  heart  has  grown  estranged  in  selfish  ways, 

With  unsaluting  tongue  and  heedless  eye ! 

But  yet  one  thought  occurs  the  woe  to  cease  : 

Perpetual  silence  is  perpetual  peace. 


318  SONNETS. 

XXVI. 

PHILANTHROPY. 

SWEET  bird,  there  warbling  on  the  waving  bough, 
My  finger  doth  upon  the  trigger  rest, 
And  soon  must  cease  to  beat  that  gentle  breast 

That  is  so  affluent  with  music  now  ; 

I  do  detest  to  kill  thee,  —  manhood  shrinks 
That  late  could  shoot  a  man  in  Mexico, 
And  unrelenting  cause  his  blood  to  flow,  — 

Tears  dim  his  vision,  and  the  weapon  sinks. 

And  yet  so  plump  thou  art,  my  darling  bird, 
So  wickedly  provoking  me  to  shoot, 
That,  maugre  all  my  qualms,  I  think  I  '11  do 't, 

And  kill  remorse  that  lately  in  me  stirred. 

I  must,  —  but,  hang  the  bird  !  he's  flown  away, 

It  was  n't  safe  for  him  round  here  to  stay. 


XXVII. 

LIPS. 


I  SAW  a  rose-bud  'twixt  a  maiden's  lips,  — 
Borrowing  new  beauties  from  its  ruby  throne, 
And  adding  them  to  graces  of  its  own,  — 

A  bud  the  like  the  wild  bee  oftenest  sips. 


SONNETS.  819 

The  sweetness  of  her  lips  did  seem  to  lend 
A  better  fragrance  than  the  bud  possessed, 
And,  as  it  rested  on  its  station  blest, 

T  was  joy  to  see  their  mutual  beauties  blend. 

0,  lips  and  roses  !     Once  upon  a  time,  — 
A  kissing  party  't  was,  —  I  "  forfeit "  paid, 
And  kissed  a  somewhat  antiquated  maid, 

Whom  Providence  had  spared  to  mourn  her  prime. 

Her  breath  made  serious  that  playful  jest, 

Exhaled  o'er  gums  not  "  Araby's  the  blest." 


XXVIII. 

CHILDREN. 

HEAVENS,  the  racket !  keep  those  children  quiet ! 
The  house  is  trembling  all  from  sill  to  rafter 
Beneath  the  tumult  of  their  noise  and  laughter, 

While  carrying  on  their  small  domestic  riot. 

"  Better  to  have  ten  rogues  than  e'er  a  fool," 
Some  one  has  said,  in  philosophic  way, 
And  that 's  precisely  what  I  often  say 

To  soothe  me  for  their  disregard  of  rule. 

"  Troublesome  comforts  "  at  the  best  are  they,  — 
But,  death-stilled  be  the  music  of  that  tongue 
Whose  note  the  loudest  through  the  house  hath  rung, 

And  what  a  cloud  has  fallen  on  our  day  ! 

Traverse  the  world,  we  '11  find,  where'er  we  roam, 

Few  spots  more  cheerless  than  a  childless  home. 


320  SONNETS. 

XXIX. 

CALIFORNIA. 

GOOD  gracious  !  how  the  mind  gloats  o'er  the  stories, 
Glittering  and  clinking  with  their  weight  of  gold, 

•    And  never  tiring,  though  so  often  told, 

The  last  recital  giving  added  glories  ! 

We  read  them  in  the  Mercantile  and  other 
Veritable  prints,  and  must  believe  'em, 
And  eyes  and  ears  are  open  to  receive  'em, 

And  every  doubt  that  they  are  true  we  smother  ! 

But  pile  the  metal  on  some  mount  Pacific, 
Till  we  can  catch  its  shining  even  here, 
My  bark,  for  one,  shall  never  thenceward  steer, 

The  faithful  promise  howsoe'er  prolific. 

The  stories  may  be  true,  as  we  are  told, 

But  there  a  beefsteak 's  worth  its  weight  in  gold. 


XXX. 

THE  DANCE. 


THE  lamps  in  yonder  hall  glow  grandly  bright, 

And  music  'liveneth  the  midnight  air, 

And  white-robed  forms,  than  seraphs'  scarce  less  fair, 
Whirl  fast  and  graceful  'twixt  me  and  the  light. 


SONNETS.  321 

There  youth  and  beauty  crowd  upon  my  sight, 
As  through  my  half-closed  curtains  forth  I  gaze, 
To  watch  the  sportive  thread  the  giddy  maze, 

And  smile  in  sympathy  with  their  delight. 

Delicious  hour !  —  enchantment  rules  the  night ; 
The  outside  world  is  herein  all  forgot,  — 
Here  is  their  world,  and  pleasure  all  its  lot, 

And  images  of  ill  have  taken  flight. 

Took  flight  ?  —  ah,  no,  —  they  only  wait  outside, 

To  join  them  in  the  coach,  as  home  they  ride. 


XXXI. 

REVENGE. 

SEARCH  the  long  catalogue  of  wicked  things 
That  appertain  to  man's  degraded  state, 
In  vain  you  '11  search  for  one  more  fell  than  Hate, 

Or  one  that  darker  trouble  with  it  brings. 

"With  thoughts  of  malice  rankling  in  his  breast, 
The  hater  walks  abroad  a  thing  accursed, 
Consuming  with  the  passion  he  has  nursed, 

And  prematurely  banished  from  all  rest. 

His  victim  to  a  grave  his  hate  may  bring, 
Or  ingenuity  some  scheme  impart, 
Furthering  the  promptings  of  a  fiendish  heart, 

With  constant  woes  a  brother's  heart  to  wring. 

God  marks  the  hater,  and  with  just  decree 

Metes  his  reward  in  earthly  infamy. 
21 


322  SONXETS. 


XXXII. 

CHILDISH  LOVE  IRRESPECTIVE. 

'T  is  beautiful  to  see  the  childish  heart 
Turning  with  fervor  and  a  grateful  force 
Towards  the  one  who  was  its  being's  source  — 

A  stream  that  ne'er  will  from  its  course  depart. 

I  recollect,  on  one  hot  summer  day, 

On  Boston  Common,  where  the  trees  had  made, 
In  the  still  air,  a  cool,  luxuriant  shade, 

I  saw  a  drunkard  lying  by  the  way ; 

His  head  was  pillowed  on  a  small  child's  knee, — 
A  gentle  girl,  who,  with  most  touching  care, 
Fanned  his  hot  temples  as  he  slumbered  there 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  spreading  tree. 

'T  was  like  same  pleading  angel  'mid  our  sin 

Watching,  with  hope,  the  lost  soul  back  to  win. 


XXXIII. 

THE  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

THOU  art  not  beautiful,  as  men  would  speak  ; 
There 's  care  upon  thy  brow,  and  in  thy  hair 
A  silvery  thread  I  see  gleam  here  and  there, 

And  health's  bright  hue  has  faded  from  thy  cheek; 


SONNETS.  323 

But,  0,  the  soul  that  looks  from  thy  dark  eye, 
And  rests  on  me  with  all  its  olden  light, 
Undimmed  by  time,  with  fond  affection  bright, 

With  love  long  tried  and  true,  which  cannot  die ; 

Thy  smile  yet  beaming  with  old  kindness  fraught,  — 
Beaming  like  sunshine  from  the  heart  within, 
Which  care,  nor  toil,  nor  poverty,  nor  sin, 

Can  dim,  or  turn  its  trustfulness  to  naught,  — 

These,  0,  my  Nannie,  draw  my  heart  to  thee  ! 

I  own  thy  chain,  nor  wish  that  I  were  free. 


XXXIV. 

DANCING. 

DANCING  some  call  "  the  poetry  of  motion," 
Where  gay  danseuses  nightly  toil  and  spin, 
And  Prudery,  blind,  or,  seeing,  chides  the  sin,  • 

But  dancing  such  as  this  suits  not  my  notion. 

We  see  sweet  childhood  on  the  festal  floor, 
And  twining  arms  link  little  heart  to  heart, 
Where,  banished  all  severities  of  Art, 

Celestial  Innocence  her  light  doth  pour ; 

Or  at  a  husking  or  a  sleighing  'bout, 
When  quantity  of  quality  takes  lead ; 
Or  in  a  festal  hour,  long  time  decreed, 

Men  dance  the  new  year  in,  the  old  one  out. 

These  I  do  like,  and  I  have  laughed  while  gazing 

To  see  a  pair  of  thick  boots  in  the  maze  amazing. 


324  SONNETS. 

XXXV. 

A  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

'NEATH  the  mild  beauty  of  a  summer  night, 
I  leave  my  chamber  to  enjoy  the  air,  — 
To  feel  its  eddies  circling  in  my  hair, 

And  feel  it  kiss  my  brow  in  wild  delight. 
The  starry  gems  bestud  the  concave  high ; 
0,  blessed  stars !  on  you  I  fix  my  eye, 

And  long  for  your  bright  spheres  to  take  my  flight. 

Beneath  o'erlacing  elms,  shut  out  from  sight, 
I  stray,  my  head  reclined  upon  my  breast,  — 
My  thoughts  away,  away  amid  the  blest ! 

The  world  forgot,  in  my  abstraction,  quite  ! 

Hark !  there 's  a  sound  of  earth,  a  note  of  bliss,  — 

Of  most  ecstatic  smack  it  is,  I  wist,  — 

Borne  to  my  ear  from  darkness,  comes  a  lover's  kiss ! 


XXXVI. 

UTILITY. 


MAN  may  win  glory  in  the  deadly  wars ; 
In  books  may  write  his  never-dying  name  j 
In  deep  philosophy  may  find  a  fame, 

And  see  its  record  blazoned  in  the  stars ; 


BONNETS.    - 

In  commerce  may  excel,  and,  on  the  main, 
A  thousand  keels  rush  swift  to  do  his  will ; 
May  with  warm  eloquence  make  tumult  still, 

Or  wake  the  stillness  to  a  storm  again ; 

May  with  sweet  melody  attune  his  lyre, 
Till  the  rapt  listener  bows,  forgetting  all 
Within  the  power  of  its  enchanting  thrall ; 

May  station  gain,  and  compass  each  desire,  — 

Attain  the  acme  of  earth's  greatness,  maybe; 

But  what  of  all  ?  —  say,  can  he  tend  a  baby  ? 


XXXVII. 

BE  JOLLY. 

BE  jolly !  drop  the  "  minor  key  "  of  sorrow, 
Nor  'plain  of  troubles  that  may  never  rise  j 
Make  happy  every  moment  as  it  flies, 

And  to  its  portion  leave  the  coming  morrow. 

Long,  dismal  faces,  and  a  dismal  mood, 

Across  our  pathway  should  they  chance  to  run, 
As  envious  clouds  do  muffle  up  the  sun, 

Drown  all  our  joy  as  with  a  sombre  flood. 

0,  for  the  heart  to  smile  at  every  fate, 

Laugh  like  the  old  Greek  in  the  antique  story, 
Or,  like  Mark  Tapley,  still  'mid  trouble  glory, 

And  feel  within  its  shadows  more  elate  ! 

Give  me  a  man  that  relishes  a  laugh,  — 

I  'd  trust  him  sooner  than  a  gloomy  one  by  half. 


326  BONNETS. 

XXXVIII. 

THE  CHURCH  IN  A  ROW.* 

LET  dogs  and  other  "  varmint "  take  delight 
In  tearing,  growling,  worrying  and  biting,  — 
But  when  good  Christian  people  take  to  fighting, 

The  heathen  round  about  them  laugh  outright. 

Fancy  a  temple  with  God's  spirit  fled ; 

Brother  meets  brother  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
And  furious  saints  belligerent  fists  do  sway, 

Or,  with  the  fi*ins,  break  each  other's  head. 

Curses  ascend  the  roof,  the  air  is  thick 
With  violence,  and  holy  spite,  and  malice, 
And  wrath  is  measured  in  a  brimming  chalice, 

And  Decency  stands  back,  and  Faith  turns  sick ; 

The  Devil  triumphs  where  Love  should  prevail, 

And  wags  delightedly  his  forked  tail. 


XXXIX. 

SUNSET. 


THE  Sun  is  sinking  in  the  radiant  "West, 

And  over  woods,  and  fields,  and  glassy  streams, 
Are  thrown  the  glories  of  his  ruddy  beams, 

Which  earth  with  richer  loveliness  invest ; 


*  In  Chelsea. 


SONNETS.  327 

And  softening  influences  mark  the  hour, — 
The  cattle  meekly  take  their  march  for  home, 
And  low  responsive  to  the  sounds  which  come 

Proclaiming  gentle  Evening's  sovereign  power. 

Down  'mid  the  trees  the  golden  sunshine  floats, 
And  the  sad  fife-bird  pours  his  sweetest  lay, 
The  robin  sings  his  vespers  on  the  spray, 

And  myriad  insects  trill  their  pensive  notes. 

The  Sun  sinks  slowly  to  his  watery  bed, 

And  draws  a  cap  of  cloud  about  his  weary  head. 


XL. 

RESOLUTION. 

"  I  FEARED  they  'd  catch  me,  and  I  ran  away !  " 
Said  a  small  girl,  with  basket  on  her  arm ; 
And,  as  if  fearful  of  some  threatened  harm, 

She  watched  her  mother's  eye  of  angry  gray. 

The  hag  her  child  had  with  the  basket  sent 
Into  a  neighbor's  turnip-garden  near, 
To  steal ;  her  little  heart  did  quake  with  fear, 

And  her  bright  eyes  dropped  tears,  as  on  she  went. 

"  I  feared  they  'd  catch  me !  "    "  Fool ! "  was  the  reply. 
The  old  one  from  its  peg  her  bonnet  took, 
Then  snatched  the  basket  with  a  sullen  look, 

While  quick  resolve  shone  plainly  in  her  eye : 

"  The  wicked  flee  when  none  pursue,  you  elf,  — 

The  just  are  bold  as  lions,  —  I  will  go  myself!  " 


328  SOXNETS. 

XL1. 

HOPE  DEFERRED. 

I  MABKED  an  organ-grinder  in  the  street, 

And  how  he  watched  each  window,  low  and  high, 
With  most  inquiring  and  artistic  eye, 

To  catch  the  wish  to  hear  his  music  sweet, 

Retailed,  like  cider,  from  the  barrel  dark 
That  from  his  neck  depended  by  a  string, 
The  hearing  which  abroad  its  rapture  fling 

Would  kill  all  wish  again  to  hear  the  lark  ! 

And  still  he  walked, — no  call  from  low  or  high, — 
Jeannot  from  his  Jeannette  no  moment  fled, 
And  all  unburied  lay  Old  Uncle  Ned, 

And  poor  Susannah  didn't  deign  to  cry  ! 

Hope's  pedestal  that  organ-man  might  grace, 

With  expectation  written  on  his  face. 


XLII. 

MODERN  NEWSPAPER  PORTRAITS. 

ILLUSTRIOUS  men,  of  high  renown  and  worth  ! 

The  tongue  your  greatness  may  not  dare  abuse; 
Ye  stand  as  beacon-lights  in  our  small  earth, 

To  praise  whom  enmity  itself  must  choose  ! 


SONNETS. 

Members  of  mighty  councils  in  the  state, 

Magnates  of  wealth,  preachers  of  note  and  fame, 
Heroes  who  honors  share  for  service  great, 

Savans  who  'mongst  the  stars  have  writ  their  name; 
Maidens  of  note,  and  dames  of  high  degree,  — 

You  all  are  shining  on  the  printed  page, 
But  vexed  I  feel,  as  ye  I  daily  see, 

At  the  vile  scandal  of  this  limning  age, 
That  mars  the  lovely,  makes  good  men  a  scoff, 
In  the  "  damnation  of  their  taking  off." 


XLIII. 

COUNTRY  VISITS. 

DELIGHTFUL  is  it,  when  the  burning  sun 

Pours  down  in  fervid  beams  that  rival  torrid, 
Frying  the  reeking  sweat  from  the  hot  forehead, 

From  city  dust  and  city  heat  to  run 

"Where  the  bland  air  may  cool  the  fevered  blood ; 
Where  kindred  beckons  us  with  open  arms, 
And  Nature,  smiling  with  ten  thousand  charms, 

Woos  us  from  grove  and  meadow,  flower  and  flood. 

But  tarry  not  until  that  time  doth  come, 
When  stranger's  china  disappears  the  board, 
And  old  familiar  crockery  is  restored, — 

The  wish  implied  that  we  should  be  at  home,  — 

When  too  familiar  are  the  household  tunes, 

And  iron  take  the  place  of  silver  spoons. 


830  SOXNETS. 

XLIV. 

THE  OCEAN. 

0  OCEAX  !     One  poor  relative  of  song 
Poureth  his  votive  tribute  on  thy  shrine ! 
Stupendous  water-works  !     Whose  source  divine 

Needeth  no  "  act  "  thy  durance  to  prolong. 

An  'umble  spirit  his  who  bows  to  thee 

And  freely  yields  himself  to  thy  stern  rule,  — 
Though  not  as  straight  as  those  he  drew  at  school, 

And  just  the  merest  particle  too  free. 

It  needed  not  the  might  thou  here  hast  shown 
To  bring  me  down,  —  a  very  worm  at  best !  — 
Mine's  no  unyielding  stomach  to  contest 

Power  so  omnipotent  as  is  thine  own  ! 

No  pious  Jew,  himself  from  sin  to  free, 

E'er  gave  heave-offering  true  as  this  I  heave  to  thee. 


XLV. 

"WHAT  I  WOULD. 


MY  boy !     I'  d  have  thee  ever  true  as  now, 
The  guilt  of  falsehood  ne'er  thy  soul  to  mar, 
And  honor's  light,  an  ever-beaming  star, 

To  shed  its  radiance  on  thy  open  brow. 


SONNETS.  3< 

I'  d  have  thee  brave,  and  ever  for  the  right 
Be  ready  with  thine  aid  to  interpose, 
To  shield  the  weak,  beset  around  with  foes, 

And  raise  the  fallen  by  thy  virtuous  might. 

I'  d  ask  not  riches  for  thee  here  below, 
For  Care's  perplexity  doth  with  them  rest, 
And  love  of  wealth  drives  from  the  human  breast 

Sweet  virtues  that  the  humble  only  know. 

I'  d  have  thee  happy  in  the  heart's  rich  store, 

Which,  blessing  others,  glads  itself  the  more. 


XLVI. 

SUMMER. 

Mr  heart  springs  glad  to  greet  thee,  joyous  June ! 
The  flowers  glow  brighter  'neath  thy  gentle  tread, 
And  on  the  genial  air  their  perfume  shed, 

While  bird,  and  bee,  and  brooklet,  all  in  tune, 

Pour  a  grand  symphony  of  love  for  thee ! 

The  trees  are  vocal,  and  their  wide  arms  swing 
At  breath  of  Zephyrus,  whose  airy  wing 

Disportive  flutters  in  the  sunshine  free. 

0  June  !     My  spirit  fain  would  soar  away 
To  woody  nooks,  shut  in  from  garish  light, 
Where  it  might  sing,  from  early  morn  till  night, 

To  thee,  bright  season,  sweetest  roundelay. 

We  greet  thee,  June,  a  truly  welcome  comer ; 

We  own  that  Spring  is  some,  but  thou  art  Summer. 


SONNETS. 

XLVII. 

SUNRISE. 

UPRISING  from  the  trees,  the  gleaming  gold 

Of  sunrise  bursts  upon  my  eager  eyes, 
And,  as  its  glories  to  my  gaze  unfold, 

My  soul  is  rapt  with  wonder  and  surprise ! 
The  green  trees  glisten  in  the  radiance  bright, 

The  birds  their  matin  songs  delighted  pour, 
The  distant  hill-tops  catch  the  enkindled  light, 

My  heart's  devotion  strengthens  with  the  hour. 

0  Nature  !  may  my  soul  still  find  in  thee 
A  satisfaction  sweet  as  now  I  know, 

When,  from  the  bonds  of  pressing  care  set  free, 
My  bosom  burns  with  admiration's  glow. 

1  feel,  while  gazing  here  on  Nature's  face, 
With  Mr.  Squeers,  that  "  Natur'  is  a  case." 

Great  Hill,  Exeter,  August,  1852. 


XLVIII. 

PATIENCE. 


PATIENCE,  rare  virtue,  let  me  sing  thy  praises. 
When  gouty  pains  the  human  frame  are  racking, 
How  wretched  is  his  plight  who  thee  is  lacking ! 

With  thee  more  kindly  rest  the  encircling  baizes. 


SONNETS.  333 

Patience  !  —  The  good  dame  sinks  who  has  it  not ! 
Her  house  in  riot,  —  "children  everywhere,"  — 
Their  voices  loud  disturb  the  quiet  air, 

And  rude  feet  trample  every  guarded  spot. 

Patience !    'tis  needed  in  life's  every  round, 
And  they  are  happiest  who  have  it  most,  — 
Better  by  far  than  wealth  is  this  to  boast,  — 

It  spreadeth  sunshine  wheresoe'er  't  is  found  ; 

Patience,  —  but,  0  !  it  brightest  shines  in  life 

Soothing  the  tempest  of  a  scolding  wife. 


XLIX. 

JENNY  LIND. 

AND  do  we  hear  thee  sing  ?     Or  is 't  some  vision 
With  melody  celestial  round  us  ringing  ? 

Or  some  enchanting  tones  from  realms  elysian 
That  waiting  zephyrs  unto  us  are  bringing, 
And  all  around  us  like  a  spell  are  flinging,  . 

Blinding  our  reason  with  a  mystic  thrall, 
Until  forgot  are  the  swift  moments  winging, 

And  present  bliss  becomes  the  all  and  all  ? 

The  soul,  inspired,  from  the  dull  earth  upspringing, 

Dwells  in  a  newer,  holier  atmosphere, 

Where  tuneful  censers  are  with  music  swinging 

Their  cloud  of  sweets  to  feed  the  ravished  ear. 

The  dream  is  o'er,  —  the  error  is  forgiven,  — 

In  Jenny's  notes  are  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 


334  SONNETS. 

L. 

THE  WOODS. 

YE  brave  old  pines  !     I  court  your  cooling  shade ; 
The  circling  air  amid  your  branches  sweeps, 
And,  checked  by  you,  the  day-star's  fervor  sleeps, 

Or  here  his  hot  artillery  is  stayed ; 

I  from  my  covert  view  him  undismayed, 
And  snap  my  fingers  in  his  burning  face, 
As  he  peeps  in  where  arching  trees  enlace, 

And  ask  myself  the  question,  —  "  Who  's  afraid  ?  " 

Ah,  many  times  have  I  thus  onward  strayed, 
In  meditation  lost,  or  sportive  bent, 
Where  every  moment  such  enjoyment  lent, 

All  other  scenes  were  dull  by  contrast  made. 

My  lad  !  your  fancy  now  a  trick  has  played, 

You  're  lost,  as  sure  as  fate,  by  the  erratic  jade. 


LT. 

TO  MY  FRIEND  PETER. 


I  SAY,  you  rattling,  hair-brained,  funny  Peter, 
Well  do  you  shake  us  with  your  many  follies, 
Driving  forth  from  us  all  our  melancholies, 

With  jovial,  exorcisms  in  prose  and  metre,  — 


SONNETS.  835 

We  love  you  heartily,  you  funny  creatur' ! 
How  could  we  find  our  way  along  without  you, 
"With  all  your  oddities  so  thick  about  you, 

And  rare  fun  beaming  out  from  every  featur'  ? 

None  in  the  fields  of  humor  are  completer 
Than  you,  my  ever-ready  pungent  Snooks,  — 
Though  more  a  puncheon  in  your  rotund  looks ; 

True  wit  ne'er  scintillates  from  any  neater. 

Salt  keeps  our  meat  and  metre  all  the  sweeter ; 

Attic  'a  the  salt,  and  you  are  all  salt,  Peter. 


LII. 

WEBSTER  vs.   WIDESWARTH. 

A  SHOUT  goes  up,  from  patriotic  throats, 

For  Webster,  mightiest  of  Columbia's  sons ; 
The  nation's  flag  from  every  topmast  floats, 

And  war's  harsh  thunder  bellows  from  the  guns  ! 
'T  is  meet  ye  honor  with  a  grand  applause 

The  men  who  make  their  mark  upon  the  times, 
Whether  they  move  the  world  by  potent  laws, 

Or  make  men  better  by  the  growth  of  rhymes. 
The  laurel  wreath  by  each  could  well  be  worn, 

And  I  'm  content,  for  one,  to  bear  my  part,  — 
Content,  too,  that  the  meed  be  likewise  borne 

By  all  who  merit  it,  with  all  my  heart. 
But  Webster  takes  the  whole,  nor  leaves  for  me 
One  single  leaf  from  the  undying  tree. 
July,  1852., 


336  SONNETS. 


till. 

SHAKSPEARE   ILLUSTRATED. 

"To  what  base  uses  may  we  come  at  last !  " 

Ah !  Shakspeare,  what  a  truth  thou  here  hast  said ! 
There 's  many  an  one  whose  lot  seemed  hopeful  cast 

That  in  gray  ignominy  bows  his  head. 
The  youth  that  "  goes  it  with  a  perfect  rush  " 

And  claims  alliance  with  the  "  upper  ten," 
May  find  his  fortune,  like  an  eggshell,  crush, 

And  make  him  mingle  in  with  common  men. 
I  Ve  seen  a  maiden  with  a  haughty  air, 

That  contumacious  scorn  did  ever  speak, 
Glad  in  the  servants'  hall  a  place  to  share, 

And  wash  the  dishes  for  so  much  per  week ! 
It  daily  grieves  my  very  soul  to  see 
A  barber's  wig  profane  the  bust  of  Ellen  Tree !  * 

*  Near  Temple-place,  on  Washington-street. 


